


Like Sleep To The Freezing

by WaitingToBeBroken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 18th Century, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Courtship, Discreet Gentlemen's Club (Good Omens), Except when it's not, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Possibly Unrequited Love, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, but not really, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-09-25 05:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20371345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingToBeBroken/pseuds/WaitingToBeBroken
Summary: A decade after their fight, Crowley wakes up to a new world and a different angel. What is he to do but don his human disguise and follow him to a certain discreet gentlemen's club? And if Aziraphale doesn't seem to recognise him, well, that's all for the better, isn't it?Hewasgoing to leave after ensuring his angel was fine.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley held the door open and Aziraphale beamed. Aziraphale fucking beamed at him, a complete stranger, who had _just_ approached him and Crowley felt a growl start in his throat. Instead, he smiled back and gestured to two unoccupied armchairs, bending slightly in what he hoped would be seen as an inviting gesture. It wasn't, his lips- a thin line, his eyes burning behind the glasses. Aziraphale still followed him.

When he was out of that ridiculous disguise, Crowley supposed they must have that conversation about strangers. That is, if Aziraphale ever decided to talk to him again, after... He winced, a twitch of a muscle he had barely managed to cover before the angel was looking softly at him again as they settled down.

There was a part of him that knew he was supposed to be loving this. Here his angel was, flushed with the autumn air, eyes sparkling as he slowly unwrapped the scarf from around his throat in a fashion that in no way was meant to look that enticing. Like a present, opening to reveal something the demon had wanted for so long, and it was just his throat, _Get a grip, Crowley._

And he would have stared, etched every line of the other's body in his mind, if not for the rage bubbling inside him like magma, minutes before it was set free. Because this was not for _him_, not for Crowley. The smile and the gaze, the soft way in which Aziraphale thanked him as the demon pressed a glass of scotch in his hands, it was for some nameless hack, a faceless nobody his friend had never seen before. And yet, the angel was acting so much nicer towards the person in front of him than he would, indubitably, had it been Crowley himself.

"I don't suppose we have met before, Mr.-"

Crowley had done his homework on this place. A discreet gentleman's club, aimed at pleasing every desire, that's how they marketed themselves. It was no wonder, then, that the use of any names was strictly prohibited. But Aziraphale was looking at him in that distinct way he always did, when he expected something of him and, damn him, Crowley hadn't thought to use the 6 thousand years they had known each other to learn how to resist that look.

"Just Anthony is fine," he nodded, clinking their glasses together. Even in a room full of chattering horny men, it was the only sound that mattered. "And, no, we wouldn't have. I've returned to London just recently."

He tried to sand down the edges of his words, keep the annoyance at bay. Had this not been what he had wanted? To sit here, so close to Aziraphale's divine warmth and talk to him, without seeing the angel's scowl, without any shouts or accusations.

How stupid, how pathetic, was it that he was jealous of _himself_?

"It is a nice establishment," Aziraphale sighed blissfully as he sank further in his armchair. Crowley, who, ever since they had sat down, had glared at 4 rent boys that had let the ludicrous idea of approaching them cross their minds, wasn't so sure. At least his angel had remained oblivious. Some things, it appeared, never changed. "Everyone is so friendly, I'm sure you would love it, Anthony."

Crowley hummed, using the moment Aziraphale was distracted with his glass to look around the room. Yes, he could quite believe everyone was being nice to his friend, he could feel the burn of at least 3 different men's stares. The room was thick with Envy and Lust and it tasted like rotting fruit on the tip of his tongue.

When he finally turned to look at his companion, he found the other staring at him, a strange emotion that felt like longing but wasn't, not quite, drowning in his eyes. Crowley realized, quite belatedly, that perhaps he had outdone himself with his vessel. His body was taller now, towering over his angel if given the chance, his shoulders- broader, muscles, he would explain away with horse-riding and sport, stretching his clothes. In his desire not to be recognised, he had also softened his features- his face was pleasantly round, no trace of the sharp cheekbones, his lips- soft and full. Even the fire in his hair had burnt out, leaving behind the colour of dull charcoal.

He looked nothing like himself. Aziraphale still stared at him, with an unidentifiable look that had never been aimed at the demon.

"Oh, my, terribly sorry. You must forgive me, how rude of me," his angel fretted once their eyes met and even in the dim light Crowley could see the blush climbing up his neck. He let his teeth sink in his lip, reminding them of all the terrible things that might happen if they did something as stupid as reveal their true size. He waved a hand in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, but only served to give it something to do that was not reaching out and squeezing his friend's knee.

"It's just-" At this, Aziraphale stopped, rolled his shoulders and then primly folded his hands in his lap. "You remind me terribly of an old, well, acquaintance, I should say."

The words made something flutter inside Crowley, who, for all his rather uncharacteristic planning of this event, had not expected this. Briefly, he allowed himself a look at his aura, but it was still the same dull human one, shining slightly in content and a hint of Love. The Love, he couldn't really get rid of, but he had tried to stifle it so deep inside himself, there was but a sliver of it, peeking out of his demonic soul. Other than that, it was normal, completely human, utterly boring. There was no reason for Aziraphale to suspect him.

"Forgive me, I seem to have spoken out of turn," his angel murmured, breaking the silence. His back straightened even more, a remarkable feat, and Crowley knew what it meant. Aziraphale was uncomfortable and the demon was aware it shouldn't cut so deep, but it did. And he tried to remind himself that this might be useful, it might aid him with his sudden desire to wrench the angel out of this den of wolves, but- Aziraphale was uncomfortable and Crowley was the one at fault.

"No, don't worry about it. I just don't get that a lot." He waved away the apology, letting the smallest hint of a smile crease his lips.

Aziraphale tilted his head, his eyes pensive. "Yes, you do have rather striking features."

And this, _this_ was exactly the type of thing his stupid, oblivious angel might proclaim and not realise how it sounded and Crowley really should have gotten used to it by now. The way his cheeks flushed just slightly told an entirely different story. But it did remind him why he had come here in the first place, what with the way Aziraphale was going around saying things_ like that_ to complete strangers. In such a place, no less.

"So have you been here long?" Crowley asked suddenly, only partly to change the subject.

"Oh, no, not at all. I've been coming for just a week now," Aziraphale turned that beatific smile towards him and the demon couldn't help but return it. Good, he hadn't missed that much then. "My good friend, Theodore, has been trying to get me to join for months." The angel nodded towards one of the younger looking man who, if Crowley wasn't a demon, would have already incinerated him with his glare.

"What made you change your mind?"

A shadow passed through Aziraphale's face, one that the demon recognised only because he had been staring at those same features for millennia. Once again, he willed himself not to reach out for his friend. There was a sort of freedom he felt, inhabiting someone else's body, but it still felt wrong somehow. As if he was lying to Aziraphale, perhaps even betraying him. He was a demon, he wasn't supposed to feel guilt, on the contrary, he should have been proud. Here he was, able to trick his oldest friend into talking to him even when he knew Aziraphale didn't want to have anything to do with him.

And yet.

"Well, it does get terribly lonely running a bookshop in London," the angel finally ventured with a smile that was almost perfect but still made something in Crowley's heart ache. "Why, I even stocked the latest Mark Twain's novel and yet, nothing. I am starting to suspect nobody _reads_ anymore."

And this was nice. This would be _easy_, once he got Aziraphale to start talking about books. Crowley might even let himself pretend it was just the two of them, back in the bookshop, a nice bottle of wine between them. He briefly wondered if he would ever get to experience that again but the way his stomach twisted told him it wasn't the time nor the place for this. Not when he had his angel in front of him.

"Nice man, Twain," he offered, nonchalant despite the way his heart was dancing in his chest, and watched as Aziraphale's eyes sparkled with excitement.

"You know him?"

"Met him during my time in America." Crowley leaned closer, conspiratorially and Aziraphale mirrored the movement. They were so close the demon could smell the alcohol and chocolate on the other's lips and for one terrible moment imagined what it would be to taste them. "He has some very interesting views. Especially about religion."

The demon wiggled his eyebrows with a smirk, that only grew when he saw the look on Aziraphale's face. It was a look he knew every dip and curve of, the way blue eyes widened and delicious lips formed a little 'O'. Exasperation, thinly veiling amusement, it whispered, 'You have said something I should _not_ approve of.'

It made something warm glow inside Crowley, enough to momentarily smother the hurt from the fact apparently this look was not reserved only for him.

"Oh, you are incorrigible, m-Anthony," Aziraphale chided lightly, but his smile gave him away.

Something shifted between them, suddenly. Subtly, almost unnoticeably, Aziraphale's posture relaxed, turned into something familiar. His hands, no longer fixed to his lap, gestured wildly as he talked in that unburdened way Crowley loved so much. And he didn't move away, the burn of his Grace so close Crowley could taste it at the back of his throat. The demon suspected he would for a very long time.

They talked for hours. Or rather Aziraphale did, about his bookshop, about the club, about everything Crowley had missed or hadn't thought to ask about, back when they had still been friends. It hurt. His angel, so open and giddy, so close, yet, in reality, as far away as he would have been had Crowley stayed back in his apartment in Mayfair. It hurt and, still, the demon took pleasure in it. How could he not, when Aziraphale was happy. Crowley could do little more than stare and will his useless brain to remember every single word the other had uttered, very smile, every excited wiggle.

Because, Satan help him, he didn't think he would be able to do this again.

"Thank you so much for your company," Aziraphale finally sighed, after what might have felt like minutes if not for the way their joints cracked when they finally decided to move, reminding them they had stayed together until the last person had left. "I dare say I have not had that much fun ever since- well, for a very long time, at least. I sincerely hope you decide to stay in London, Anthony."

The way Crowley smiled told the angel that spending even an hour more like this, so close to Aziraphale and yet a complete stranger, might just be enough to discorporate him. Or it would have, had he been wearing his normal face. As it were, it was just a warm pull of the lips, as the man his friend knew as Anthony slipped his hand in the angel's and brought it to his lips. He was allowed one taste, the demon reasoned, one kiss, and then he would go back to sleep and not bother Aziraphale anymore. Who was he hurting, anyway, other than himself?

"How can I not, now when I know all the temptation it offers? If I do return, who should I be asking for?" Crowley drawled before letting his lips drag across soft skin. Something electrical pulsed through him, setting his body alight and he knew he was a goner. Had been the moment he had decided to come here, he suspected. He had weaved a web, thick and sticky, and that kiss, that warm weight in his grasp, that taste of divinity, had been the last thread tightening around him.

Aziraphale flushed scarlet, or had his cheeks already been this rosy before?

"Oh my, I've been exceptionally rude today! You _must_ forgive me, I assure you I am not usually this scatter-brained. Ezra Fell, it has been a pleasure meeting you. Now, if you would excuse me."

Aziraphale bowed gracefully and he was off, scurrying away. There was not much Crowley could do than stare after him, the way his coat jacket billowed out after him, almost like wings, his hair, ruffled by the wind reminiscent of a halo. He stood there, a cursed statue, until his angel was nothing but a single ray of sunlight cutting through the grimness of the city, before turning to leave.

_Ezra Fell_, his lips moved around the name, tasting it. He didn't like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, I _am_ back to my usual, angsty, bullshit. Thank you for noticing. It's an idea I've had for a while and I finally thought, why not? Especially, since I get to torture my boys!
> 
> Also, the title is from Cherry Wine by Hozier, because I love him and I really thought it would fit.
> 
> Well, thank you for reading and I hope you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

It was going to be a one-time thing.  
  
Crowley was not supposed to return, he had made sure his angel was safe and still in one piece. And happy, without him. Aziraphale didn't need him. His angel had his club and his little, stupid mortal friends and _Theodore_. The demon felt that ugly feeling he didn't dare name bubble inside his chest, rise up and suffocate him.  
  
He was supposed to be asleep now. Aziraphale didn't need him.  
  
The thought, like a thorny vine, constricted around his lungs even as he returned again and again. Young, old, thin, fat, he tried every disguise he could think of. Sometimes, he would sit back and watch Aziraphale interact with the patrons, laugh with his friend Theodore, play chess with numerous other people. There were always _people_ around him.  
  
It would have been unbearable to see his angel alone and dejected, to gaze at his face and see a shadow, where once a galaxy had shined. It hurt even more to know he wasn't the one making that smile bloom.  
  
Sometimes he would talk to him. Crowley was friendly, he was _nice_, not in the way he had always ached to be, but how he had seen others act. How he knew Aziraphale would want him to. They would talk about politics and poetry and books, and on one memorable occasion, philosophy. Like his angel was so prone to do once he had had a few bottles of wine inside his body, he had brought up Greek philosophers, namely Heraclitus, to argue his point that the world was always changing, always improving.

As an immortal occult being, that had seen humans make the same mistakes again and again, Crowley had been rather put off by his angel's gushing over the idea that change was all around them, and all that nonsense about rivers of all things. Honestly, near the end, the only reason he had been able to understand his friend had been for the fact they had already spent 2 millennia debating this topic. Nonetheless, in the demon's experience, it was exactly the opposite and he would have said so, the words burning on a tongue he had to bite, yet he nodded along and just enjoyed the lilt of Aziraphale's voice when he was excited about an idea.  
  
Crowley was _trying_. He had never tried before. It was worth it, each smile reminded him, each jolt of divinity as his fingers grazed over his angel's. Each time Aziraphale looked at him, soft and angelic, every feature etched behind Crowley's eyelids and still _not enough_. Because Aziraphale was kind to him and he would smile politely and he would hold out his hand to introduce himself, and maybe that contact alone was why Crowley kept changing forms, how utterly pathetic was that. But he would never laugh, like that first time when the demon hadn't even been trying. There would still be that tension behind his shoulders, as if he was carrying more than the invisible weight of his wings.  
  
He wasn't even supposed to be here, Crowley reminded himself. It was too dangerous, what he was risking- unthinkable, if his angel saw through the ruse.  
  
All of his fears were pushed aside the moment he walked through the door and Aziraphale lifted his head, recognition flickering in his eyes like stars. There was a smile too, so bright its light was reflected by the halo around the angel's head, making his whole face shine. His friend was looking at him like he was ecstatic to see him, as if in this exact moment this was the only thing that would have ever made him happy and Crowley's heart _ached_. He had missed this, that open adoration that made Aziraphale's eyes crinkle at the edges just so, that the demon had been sure he would never see again. And he hadn't, not really. Because it wasn't for _Crowley_ and if he wasn't this pathetic excuse for a demon, far too desperate for any warmth from his angel, he would have been disgusted with himself.  
  
He nodded slightly, focusing all of his energy into not smiling like the fool he was that he didn't even think to stop his legs from swaying underneath him like a pair of snakes. Aziraphale didn't notice, or if he did, he didn't seem to mind, his happiness only glowing brighter as the demon settled into a nearby chair. With satisfaction, Crowley watched as his angel turned to the man on his left, some Mark or David or whatever people were called nowadays, and expressed his deepest regret at having to cut the conversation short. It was the closest Aziraphale had ever gotten to being impolite and it sent a pleasant shiver down Crowley's spine that made him sink down further into the chair.  
  
"Anthony!" That sunshine was turned towards him in mere seconds. Aziraphale beamed, clasped his hands together and offered him a glass of wine, identical to the one the angel had in his other hand, that the waiter had brought over silently and Crowley was not prepared. He could do nothing but accept it mutely, paralysed by the sudden rush of _feelings_ currently overtaking his body.  
  
Satan, he had thought he could do this.  
  
Not that Aziraphale was bothered by his silence, and when had he ever been, as he chattered excitedly, "My God, you cannot believe how ecstatic I am that you decided to return. Such a long time had passed, I almost thought you weren't coming back. And yet, here you are."  
  
"Here I am," Crowley mumbled into his drink, almost sourly. He had spent _hours_ talking to Aziraphale, being nice, listening patiently, and for what? The moment Anthony arrived, suddenly his angel was a babbling mess? What the fuck was so great about him, anyway? It wasn't as if Crowley had made an effort to be friendly the first time they had met, he hadn't even planned on talking to his angel. But he had been weak, and he had been pathetic, and he had _missed_ this so it was only fitting this would be his punishment. "I did have a few urgent affairs in the country I needed to settle before I could return."  
  
"Oh, would that mean you are staying here, then? In London?" Aziraphale asked in such a hopeful way it made Crowley's decorative heart wobble, dangerously close to tumbling down and breaking.  
  
'In Greece for long?'  
  
'I suppose you would be leaving Rome soon?'  
  
'There is this wonderful play I have been meaning to see in the Globe theater. Would you mind accompanying me, if you had the time?'  
  
How many times had Aziraphale looked at him this way, eager and open, offering the demon his friendship or at least his company? How many times had Crowley said, 'No', because he couldn't, because the angel's hopeful smile was too bright and Crowley was poison.  
  
"All yours." Even as he finally let free words that had made their home inside his mouth so long ago, Crowley forced his lips into a hungry smirk. He was still a demon, he had a reputation to uphold. No use going around spitting out his feelings without casting a smudge of his darkness upon them.  
  
There was light colour on Aziraphale's cheeks as he ducked his head and Crowley was almost glad he had never accepted his friend's invitations back when he had been inhabiting his own body. The flush looked delicious, the demon's very own forbidden fruit, and he wasn't certain he would have resisted a bite. He could barely resist it now, his suddenly too long nails digging into armrests he would have to miracle whole later, and he didn't even _want_ this. At least, certainly not now, not while he looked like this.  
  
"What did you occupy yourself with, while I was gone? Certainly, you didn't simply wait for me to return, gazing mournfully at the door?" Crowley teased lightly, his body swaying forward, towards that familiar warmth, almost on its own accord. It was one of the easiest ways to distract his angel, and certainly the most enjoyable.  
  
Aziraphale giggled, the sound sloshing around them like the wine in his cup, but so much more delicious. And as Crowley relaxed back into the chair, his body drifting weightless in the sea of his angel's words, he realised he might just get used to this.

* * *

  
It was a week later, when they next saw each other. Crowley didn't comment on it, nor share the fact he had persisted in coming every day in the search for his angel. What good would it do, for Aziraphale to be aware, so early in their friendship, of Crowley's tendencies.

The moment Aziraphale walked into the room, there he was, a hurried step towards the demon, hands wringing in front of his chest nervously.  
  
"Goodness me, I am so terribly sorry. I truly did not mean to disappear for so long, and so soon after the start of our acquaintanceship," his angel babbled as he unwrapped all his outer layers, an act that had Crowley frozen in stunned silence for far longer than he was willing to admit to. What made him come through, rather abruptly, was the little swarm of men circling around his friend, not unlike a pack of hungry hyenas, offering good wishes and sniffing for information.  
  
"Oh, is your family in good health?"; "Perhaps your wife was not feeling well?"; "It is that time of the year for children, not much you can do, eh?"  
  
They were pathetic, Crowley thought bitterly, refusing to even acknowledge the fact that he himself had checked up on the bookshop only two days into Aziraphale's vanishing act. But he, he had done it out of concern for his friend, to soothe that constant ache inside his heart that demanded to know where his angel was, just in case. The men in the club, on the other hand, they just sought to see if Aziraphale was available, and now that he had cheerily answered all their question correctly, with a dismissive wave of his hand and a flustered smile on his face, he had confirmed that no, he had no wife nor children. And now, they had smelled blood. Crowley had rather hoped it wouldn't come to this, at least not so soon, before he had managed to solidify his relationship with his angel.  
  
He needed to come up with a plan, some way to make sure nobody would bother them, but it was rather hard to. Usually, he would just growl and glare at whoever had been foolish enough to even look at Aziraphale. But that wouldn't work now, would it? He had no claim over his friend, not yet, not looking like this. Not that he had had any before, but it had been so easy, so natural, to let that possessive streak inside him flare every time he sensed desire wafting out of puny humans towards the most angelic being that had ever walked this Earth. It was made even easier by how adorably oblivious Aziraphale was and Crowley could pretend, for one desperate moment, that he was in his right to protect him from the vultures of the world.  
  
"Busy with the bookshop?" the demon asked, when Aziraphale had finally managed to shake off all the well-meaning and suddenly far too interested men from around him. It was the only thing that could consume the angel, this, and a very good book, but he knew that had it been a book, the other would have simply brought it along. Or he would have, if he was meeting Crowley, the demon content with just sipping on alcohol and listening to the rustle of pages. But he wasn't Crowley, was he? He _kept_ forgetting that.  
  
Before he could spiral even further into the strangest existential crisis, Aziraphale was nodding, and now that he was close, Crowley could easily see exhaustion etched into his features.  
  
"A new shipment of books arrived, but as it appears there was some miscommunication with the manufacturer and it is _simply_ a nightmare. I have books missing and far too many copies of the ones I did ordered. What is worse, due to the nature of it I couldn't even m- What I mean to say is that I have spent the past few days going through each and every title. And I have hardly finished even half of them."  
  
There was a certain level of annoyance in Aziraphale's voice, resignation and the slightest hint of despair, all rolled into one.  
  
"I'll come over, if you want." The words, so familiar, almost an instinct now, like the one that kept telling him to breathe even though he didn't need it, left his mouth so quickly, he barely had the time to think. Barely had the time to realise how this might sound, coming from a stranger.  
  
Aziraphale's head snapped in his direction, the corners of his mouth twitching up in what promised to be a beautiful smile before they froze. His whole body froze and then reeled back, as if the thought that had just occurred to him had been jammed forcefully inside his brain. His angel's eyes glazed over and he shook his head, slowly.  
  
"I am grateful, Anthony, but I will manage quite fine on my own, thank you. It's only that," at this Aziraphale sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Oh, well, it hardly matters now, does it?"   
  
Crowley nodded, careful not to let the disappointment show on his face. A decade ago and he would have been there, without even been asked, sorting through book after book with Aziraphale's grateful smile as his only reward. They might have gone to a restaurant after, then shared a bottle of wine. Instead, here he was, disguised as a dull human just so his angel would talk to him.   
  
"Anthony?" Aziraphale's question, no louder than a sigh, broke the uncomfortable silence.  
  
"Hm?" He turned to look at his friend, the insults he had been silently hurling at himself all but forgotten the moment he laid eyes on his angel. Aziraphale's head hung low, his nails drawing symbols Crowley could barely remember on the chilled glass. The demon burned to hold out a hand, draw him in his embrace. Never let him go.  
  
"Do you suppose..." His angel bit his lip, looked up. His gaze was tortured but there was a steadfast quality to it, a hidden bravery, steel underneath the wool. "I am not too forward, am I?"  
  
Crowley almost let out a disbelieving snort of laughter, one which he managed to hide behind a cough.  
  
'Forward, you?' he wanted to ask, incredulously. 'The one who needed 4 millennia to recognise we were not enemies? Who, a few centuries ago, would blanch at the idea of someone thinking we were friends? Why, angel, I don't think you can even come close to forward, even if it was a nicely cooked steak.'  
  
"Why would you even think so?" instead, Crowley questioned, swallowing back words that would, once freed, surely, delve into unfamiliar territories such as the demon's true identity and, even worse, _feelings_.  
  
Aziraphale huffed a little laugh, as if what the other had asked was so ridiculous. But, as sudden as it had appeared, the mirth was gone, and his angel went back to worrying a lip Crowley had so many times imagined kissing raw.  
  
"I truly don't mean to overstep, you must tell me if I do. However, I- there is something, something so terribly familiar in you, Anthony, that I sometimes forget we have met but a handful of times. The last thing I would want is to make you feel uncomfortable."  
  
Crowley laughed. He laughed because he was certain that if he didn't, he just might cry.  
  
"Forgive me for being the one too forward, Ezra." The name tasted like ash on his tongue, like blood from a one too many times bitten back endearment. "But I had already assumed our friendship."  
  
"Really? You mean it?" Aziraphale's voice was soft and hopeful, his face- the same open, eager anticipation he always wore when he dared seek out the Goodness in Crowley. Always so certain of its existence, even when the demon himself wasn't. Even when Crowley was so determined to show him he was wrong. And yet, every time his angel needed him, there he was, a terrible stain on divinity itself. The vice around Crowley's heart tightened.

Not anymore.  
  
Satan, how that hurt.  
  
"Of course," Crowley smiled even if his eyes stung. He extended a hand. "Friends?"  
  
Almost radiating with happiness, Aziraphale grasped it and shook it lightly. Crowley knew he would regret this, all of this, even before he could hear the reverent way his angel was whispering back, "Friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Enjoy hurting them? Pffft.
> 
> Anyway, thank you everyone for the kind words and support and I hope you enjoyed this!!


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale was late. Crowley glanced at the clock on the wall, tapped a foot, then lifted his hob-watch and stared impatiently as the seconds ticked away.

He was waiting in their usual armchairs. They had been meeting here for a few weeks now, or exactly 7 more times, not that he was counting, and the demon had yet to arrive first. He knew, of course, exactly which days and at what time Aziraphale was usually at the club, but he had always feared appearing too eager, far too aware of the shaky foundation of their companionship. Yet, there he was, waiting for his angel.

Finally, after Crowley had nervously downed what was possibly his third glass of wine for the night, Aziraphale barged into the saloon. More precisely, his angel pushed the doors open with a touch more decisiveness than Crowley was used to seeing from him, and, although he was still his radiant sunshine of a person, there was a muscle throbbing on his temple, one the demon knew extremely well and was more often than not, the cause of.

His angel was also soaking wet. Without thinking, Crowley's fingers rubbed together, the desire to help, to fix, overwhelming. At the last moment, the demon managed to realise what exactly he was seconds away from doing and stop himself, a growl rumbling inside his chest. A thousand curses ran through his mind, all of them aimed at himself, but he knew there was no point. There was something inside him, a burning, aching pain, seizing his body each time his angel needed him. There was no point in stopping it, when all it wanted, all _he_ had ever wanted, was for Aziraphale to be happy.

He waited until his friend was momentarily distracted by another member of the club, who was running his hands over the angel's shivering shoulders in a way that made Crowley want to rip them out of his body and make him eat them. But there would be time for this, he assured himself, the miserable way Aziraphale's curls hung over his forehead distracting him from his sudden blood-thirst.

Discreetly, Crowley waved a hand and then curled his fingers around the fluffy towel that appeared next to him. There was the unmistakable shift of energy, as matter reorganised itself, but there were too many humans fussing around his angel now, hopefully distracting him sufficiently. Was he thinking clearly, and perhaps later, when he was alone he would, he would have realised how much he had risked, just to be the one to offer Aziraphale something for him to dry himself with. Even then, he doubted he would have been too hard on himself, the only thing that would ever seem to matter in his world being the soft pull of lips as his friend took the towel, the subtle way their fingers brushed together.

"Forgot your umbrella?" Crowley asked, his tone light even as he stared transfixed at the way his angel dabbed at his face and neck. It took all his self-control and then some, as a demon he wasn't exactly gifted with that much, not to ask the other if he needed any help with his task.

Crowley could feel his friend squirm uncomfortably. Blue eyes peaked from behind the towel before darting around the room, looking anywhere but the suddenly glaring demon.

"You gave it away, didn't you?" His tone was supposed to be accusing, admonishing, and Aziraphale at least had the decency to look guilty. But there was a hidden layer of awe, so deeply buried even he sometimes forgot it was there.

His angel's face contorted, in a grimace that was so familiar even if Crowley had last seen it millennia ago.

"She was with child. I couldn't very well leave her in the rain. What if she had caught pneumonia?" Aziraphale fussed, his flush only growing under the demon's disbelieving stare.

Crowley tried to stifle his annoyance. Of course his angel had let someone have his umbrella and had walked in the pouring rain, ruining his favourite coat for a complete stranger. Of course that simple fact made something warm burn uncomfortably inside the demon's chest. Why would Aziraphale being a completely selfless idiot amaze or even bother him at this point?

He knew why, even though he had tried so hard not to think about it. To remember that conversation. Because his angel was nice, he was kind. The pure divinity of his actions sometimes burned at Crowley's demonic soul, a constant reminder of how lovely the creature before him was and how _unworthy_ he was of the angel. Aziraphale would stop at nothing, helping those in need or simply offering guidance and reassurance.

And yet, when Crowley had needed him, truly needed him, he had turned his back on him. As if they had not been friends for millennia, as if the demon had not been following him around like a love-sick puppy ever since he had first laid eyes on him on the Wall.

It had been his own damn fault, he reminded himself, putting his angel in a position where he had to choose between Crowley and his loyalty to Heaven. The demon didn't have the right to be bitter about any of this. They we- _had been_ friends but only because Aziraphale had allowed them to be, and only on the angel's terms and damn him to the deepest circle of Hell, Crowley couldn't help but be grateful for it all.

It was nothing new, he had accepted it long ago, or thought he had.

Desperately trying to change the direction in which his traitorous mind had led him, he glanced at Aziraphale. And promptly groaned, his annoyance quickly giving way to the affection glowing in his chest. How could he even try to stay mad at the idiot of an angel before him when, there he was, twisting his hands in unnatural angles in order to effectively dry his hair. If one didn't know that a man his age couldn't have gotten to this point in his life without drying his hair, they might have assumed he had never done it before. One also wouldn't have been completely wrong.

Regardless, Aziraphale was drawing stares and before most of Crowley's brain could warn him of how stupidly reckless his idea was, the demon was already raising to his feet. He was one flourish away from snatching at Aziraphale's towel and one step away from towering behind his sitting form.

His angel tipped his head to look at him, his eyes wide and not quite terrified, but something close, something cautious he had never showed Crowley and for one ridiculous second the demon felt almost vindicated. Then he realised his angel being worried about what Anthony might do strictly translated to his angel being cautious of _him_ and that simply wouldn't do.

"Relax, angel," he whispered, careful that his voice did not shake with affection he had never dared set free.

He didn't notice Aziraphale freezing underneath him, wide eyes turning glassy. What made him finally realise what he had said, was the sudden way his angel jerked out of his grasp, his whole body as if curling in on itself.

"An-Wh-," his friend started, his voice mute before dying out completely as Aziraphale simply shook his head.

Crowley bit back a groan, vowing to himself he would have a _nice_ conversation with his subconscious once he was home. For now, he focused on weighting his options, not much he could do to salvage the situation than to lie. He was a demon, it was what he was good at.

He pointedly ignored the fact that he had never actually lied to his angel before.

"It's what you get, going around giving away your umbrella to people," Crowley teased with lightness he didn't feel. It didn't quite work, his voice too rough around the edges he had been too distracted to hide, too much like his own. Aziraphale still leaned back slowly, not exactly as relaxed as before but not the tight string of anxiety he had been moments ago. "I'm sorry, would you like me not to-"

He didn't know what he was offering, not to call him angel or not to touch him. Perhaps not to be around him all together?

"No, I should be the one apologising. I reacted quite harsh, didn't I?" Aziraphale shook his head, voice still breathlessly dazed.

Crowley waited for the other to continue, perhaps push him away, but when nothing of the sort occurred, he slowly curled his fingers around white locks. Instantly, he knew their softness would haunt him for long and it would be all he would be able to think about once he was alone. Tugging at them lightly, he maneuvered Aziraphale's head closer, suppressing a shiver at how easily his angel relaxed in his grasp, let himself be drawn close.

Crowley was not ashamed to admit how many times he had imagined himself in this situation. Lust was a demon's native language and he had spent so many days drowning in it just as he had dreamed of drowning in the other's lush body. His angel was not helping the matters, feather-soft sighs spilling freely from his lips at every caress, the way he eagerly pushed himself against Crowley's long fingers, how he melted when the demon dragged the towel against his exposed neck.

Even if he knew he would come to regret this, Crowley decidedly focused on the sinfulness of the situation and not on the warmth soaking up his very soul. There had always been something in helping his angel, something divine in a way he had never thought he would be again. Standing there, with Aziraphale leaning against him, putty in his hands, it was the closest thing to Heaven he knew he would ever experience.

* * *

Despite the almost intimate moment they had shared, or maybe because of it, Aziraphale spent the whole day with his head buried in a large leather-bound tome. Crowley wanted to groan the instant he saw his angel fish it out of his coat, suspiciously dry, not that he would ever be suicidal enough to point that out. Or argue that if Aziraphale could extend his powers to keeping his books dry, surely he could do the same for himself. But that was a point, Crowley had found earlier in their acquaintanceship, that was to be endlessly discussed and entirely futile.

Nonetheless, the book was a clear sign his friend did not feel particularly keen on conversation and, as always, the demon had to force himself to respect that. Other people, on the other hand, hadn't quite gotten the memo, trying to start various conversations with Aziraphale that ultimately, always ended with a one-word reply or a hum from the angel. Crowley would have said something, maybe growled protectively if he didn't take so much pleasure in his friend being outright dismissive towards everyone around him.

He really tried not to think about how, if the demon tried the same, he would suffer a similar fate.

"Want me to walk you home?" Crowley asked once his angel had started twitching in that familiar way that meant he was growing restless. He watched as Aziraphale lifted his head, surprise and just the slightest touch of suspicion marring his face. Perhaps, the demon should have at least tried to stifle down that familiar affection, strictly speaking, they _had_ known each other for barely a month. But reading his angel's features came too easy, too natural, a favourite past time he had indulged in for far longer than he had been allowed.

"I will be quite all right. Thank you kindly." Aziraphale smiled, but it was a tense kind of smile that looked alien on his gentle features. Crowley had pushed too far, hadn't he? That's what happened when he didn't keep himself in check, when he didn't consider each word and each gesture beforehand. When he got too comfortable.

It was selfish, pushing for more when Aziraphale had showed his discomfort. Then again, Crowley had never claimed to be a saint.

"It is still raining mercilessly outside and _someone_ parted far too willingly with their umbrella." The demon let that sinful lilt that always made it so much easier to temp the other permeate his voice.

Aziraphale could and most probably would have miracled himself an umbrella, the scowl on his face- an almost guarantee of that. Still, Crowley pointedly ignored that fact and then suddenly delighted in the realisation that Anthony had no way of knowing it, anyway. Something his angel was slowly and not quite that happily coming to terms with as well.

"Very well," Aziraphale nodded, shoulders sagging with a breathless sigh. Crowley might have let that ever-present guilt gnaw at his raw bones, the pain of it almost grounding now, but the thought of following his angel to his bookshop was enough to silence it briefly. Perhaps even replace it with happiness that, was he not a demon, would have made him feel giddy.

That's how he found himself walking the streets of London under the pouring rain, having to pretend the road wasn't so painfully familiar that the cobbles had molded themselves to his footsteps. The pleasure of having his angel so close as if for the first time in millennia almost enough for him to ignore the stiff way in which Aziraphale was moving, how he was standing so far away from the demon there was a wet splotch growing on his left shoulder.

Or it should have been. But his angel was clearly uncomfortable being around him and Crowley had been the one to put them in a situation where the other couldn't have refused his company. Then again, wasn't that what a normal demon would have done- taken and taken, with complete abandon? When had Aziraphale's comfort so decidedly replaced his own?

'The moment you fucking met him,' his traitorous mind whispered just as his angel shifted even farther away. To anyone else it would have appeared as an accident, as Aziraphale falling out of step with his companion. Unfortunately for him, and his far too human heart, Crowley knew better. Without thinking, but he doubted it would have changed anything, other than waste valuable time, the demon shifted the umbrella, so it was completely covering his angel.

It was easier now, being so much taller than Aziraphale and that reminder made him feel slightly better. Whatever boundaries he had overstepped, his angel wasn't angry at him, but at this dull, stupid human that Crowley could make disappear with the snap of his fingers whenever he wanted.

He tried not to ponder over the stark realisation that whatever form he chose, he always ended up taking too much, hurting his angel. He could have sworn to himself he would be more careful, that next time he would try to change, but there was something in Aziraphale, a force that drew him in and held him close. And he was but a moth to a flame, one more careful not to extinguish it with its wings than caring its body was ablaze.

The rain poured on his hat, a ravenous tap tap tap, that Crowley felt he almost deserved. Certainly, he preferred this to a single drop of water marring his angel. Aziraphale was ethereal, yes, but their bodies were fragile, perhaps sometimes too mortal and Crowley would have rather doused himself with holy water than have his angel fall ill. The fact that the same could have happened to him didn't even cross his mind.

It took a few moments before Aziraphale took notice of his shelter. Always so used to sneaking glances at his angel, Crowley watched with the corner of his eye as his friend gazed at him. There was something so unguarded on Aziraphale's face, so pure and angelic it almost felt sacrilegious for the demon to bear witness to it. It was a look Crowley had gotten used to over the weeks, a devastating companion to all those times the demon had slipped and said or did something he shouldn't have.

In the beginning he had thought it meant Aziraphale beginning to recognise him. But when the angel didn't say anything, when he pointedly ignored every word and gesture that might have been too familiar for Crowley's comfort, the demon considered it just wishful thinking. How very arrogant of him, Crowley thought bitterly, to even assume Aziraphale wanted a reminder of the one who had been so horrible to him.

"Oh, my dear," his friend chided, as if talking to a child that had made a mess while trying to bake him a cake. Soft and gentle, more affection than annoyance and Crowley was too slow in stopping the whimper, crawling at his throat.

Before he could say anything, Aziraphale was moving closer and linking their arms together, shifting his hand so the umbrella was covering them both. None of the passersby around them commented on the proximity of the two men, and the demon would later struggle to think if it was due to his demonic miracle or Aziraphale's.

"I have been too unkind to you today, haven't I?" his angel fretted. Crowley, not trusting his voice, or his whole body for that matter, chose to shake his head, disputing the notion as vehemently as he could.

"Nonetheless, I appreciate you being such an amiable friend to me," Aziraphale continued in a voice that could have made anyone offer to give his life for him. Not that Crowley had ever needed any additional encouragement. "And I do need you to know that if I ever- If I ever act in a less than pleasant manner, I had not, in any way, meant to do it."

"I know you aren't capable of being rude even to save your own life, angel," Crowley grinned sharply, before a wince seized his whole body. There it was again, the endearment he had been biting back for weeks now. How easy was it, for a single word to slip past his defenses now that he had set it free.

Luckily for him, Aziraphale didn't comment on it nor did he flinch away like he had done before. The only proof the angel had heard him being the way he picked at the demon's sleeve, tugging at a loose thread nervously. But even that wasn't conclusive enough evidence, Crowley tried to reassure himself, what with Aziraphale being the tight coil of anxiety he usually was.

They walked, hand in hand, and Crowley didn't even have to pretend not to know the route to the all-too familiar bookshop. In fact, with the warm weight of Aziraphale's arm around his, with the angel so close Crowley could taste his scent on the tip of his tongue, he would have been hard-pressed to even remember his own name.

Much faster than the demon had hoped for, his friend was stopping before a familiar building.

"That's me, then," Aziraphale turned to his bookshop proudly and Crowley pretended to look at it approvingly, while desperately trying not to show how much he was missing warmth he had already grown accustomed to. "Would you like to join me for a nightcap, Anthony?"

Crowley almost said yes, of course he did. Letting himself sink in that familiar couch, lulled by Aziraphale's gentle voice. That had been everything he had ever wanted ever since he had woken up. And yet...

_Anthony_

Even after all this, all the liberties he was allowed due to that name, he couldn't help that shiver of disgust digging its nails in his spine when his angel uttered the word so softly. He smiled, a bitter pull of lips around the bile in his throat.

"Thank you. Perhaps some other time, Zira."


	4. Chapter 4

The worst thing about saying "yes" to Aziraphale, apart from the fact Crowley could rarely resist it, was that once the demon had done it, it got increasingly easy to continue doing so. It didn't help that every time he agreed to resume their night at the bookshop, his angel gave him such a dazzling smile it occurred to Crowley that he could have never been able to refuse, anyway.

But Aziraphale was happy and there had _never_ been anything more important to the demon. Sitting here, draped on the familiar couch, with one of Vivaldi's concerti playing in the background, the very same Crowley had bought tickets for, so many decades ago. It felt familiar, reminiscent of a home he had never really had. The air around him, heavy with the smell of books and white curls and tea, tasted like warmth and suspiciously like love.

And Crowley, for once in his life, decided to just enjoy it.

"I'll be right back, my dear," Aziraphale mumbled as he climbed up on his unsteady feet. Crowley gazed up at him, eyes just as wobbly as his angel's stance, trying to determine what way his friend might fall, if his legs failed to support him. He promptly shifted slightly to the left.

Before Crowley could ask where the other was going, and luckily before something very close to a whine could escape his lips, Aziraphale was shuffling around him. There was a hand brushing against his shoulder, a warm weight his angel had probably meant for nothing more than his own support. It still made Crowley melt into the cushions. He had forgotten about that, happily let his mind erase that ever so devastating quirk Aziraphale had always had. For his angel had always been so open with his affection, his warm words, encouragements and even touch- always so freely given, but never less special. A little piece of divinity bestowed upon a world that did not deserve it.

Aziraphale had even tried it on him, so long ago, it seemed. But there had always been something about his angel touching him that made Crowley's whole body seize up, for his breath, suddenly burning in his lungs, to escape his lips. He would often growl, menacing and warning, just so he could disguise the content sigh, as if coming from a soul he had thought he had lost so long ago.

Eventually, Aziraphale had stopped trying. For a long time, Crowley had assured himself it was for the better. Some days, he would find himself still trying.

"There we are," his angel exclaimed gleefully, pressing a bottle of wine in Crowley's hands. If the demon's fingers lingered into the cool touch, wrapped around soft fingers an idea too long, surely, it was to ensure he had a good grip on the bottle.

They had already had a few, something, which in normal circumstances would not have bothered the demon. But pretending he was a human, keeping his demonic soul so deep inside himself that the only being that had known him for the worst of human history would not recognise him- it did take its toll. Crowley could feel his vision swim and his hands shake as he tried to open the bottle. His angel was no better, his eyes hazy in the promise of a spirited discussion about people, long dead, a delicious blush creeping up his neck. Crowley's eyes zeroed on the other's throat, flushed and bobbing, noted the absence of the cravat protecting it.

Just as the demon was slowly coming to the realisation that not only was his angel's neck all but bare, but his waistcoat was unbuttoned, hanging open loosely and revealing a white shirt, so flimsy Crowley could probably just rip it apart with his teeth, Aziraphale looked down on himself. And promptly flushed scarlet, putting the inevitable dread of discorporation into the demon's mind.

"Dreadfully sorry, my dear." His angel looked at him, wide eyes so innocent and Crowley was glad he was too intoxicated to move. There was hunger underneath his skin, clawing at his insides and it was so much harder to contain it when Aziraphale was looking at him like this, so open, so trusting. When his angel didn't know what stood before him, what the monster was capable of. "It is rather warm, isn't it? Do you mind terribly that I-"

Aziraphale waved a hand at the state of his undress and Crowley almost growled at the idea of his angel, covering up. It was ridiculous, they had been friends for as long as humans had existed and they had both spent millennia in places where men were more than happy to be as close to naked as they possibly could. The fact he was completely and utterly done for by a damned bare neck should have felt _humiliating_.

Instead of answering, the demon lifted the bottle to his lips. It was enough to hide his own flush and a desperate attempt to distract his angel from the heart-stopping topic of his own perceived nakedness. It worked, Aziraphale's gaze flicked to his lips, and, oh, that made the desire burn even brighter. The angel tutted at him, shaking his head disapprovingly, but the lovely way he smiled gave him away.

Something occurred to Crowley, sharp and uncomfortable, like an itch, buried deep in his stomach.

"I don't want to impose if you would rather be alone?" he asked, suddenly unnaturally fretful. He didn't think his angel would ever use his own state of undress to hint at wanting to be alone, and if he did, it would prove to be entirely counterproductive. But there was something so vulnerable in the way Aziraphale stood before him, pliant with wine and the most naked Crowley had seen him in too long, almost an offering, a virgin sacrifice the demon inside of him couldn't help flash his teeth at. He almost hoped his friend would tell him to leave because, Satan knew, he wouldn't be able to do it on his own.

But his angel was shaking his head, taking the wine from his hands and following Crowley's example, plush lips wrapping around the opening of the bottle, stretching wide and... Despite the way his body was wailing for one more glance, just one more, the demon turned his eyes to the ceiling, staring at it defiantly. There was that red splotch of wine that had been there ever since the opening of the bookshop, Crowley remembered that day, remembered the events leading to that stain and he wondered why Aziraphale hadn't removed it yet.

"Oh, absolutely not. I have nothing to do all night, apart from some light reading." Aziraphale smiled, a droplet of blood-red clinging to his lips and Crowley bit his own in order to stop himself from leaning forward, drinking it, tasting the skin underneath it. Instead, he looked at where his angel was nodding at, desperate to shift his attention to something that was not the most gorgeous being in the whole of creation. He grasped blindly at the end table, not really in the right state of mind to see what he was looking for, but knowing he had found it when his fingers curled around a thick cover.

"Great expectations?" Crowley held the book above himself and squinted at the upside down title. "That's a very, hm, _interesting_ book." He cleared his throat. There was but one surefire way to get on Aziraphale bad graces and it was to insult his books. He was still finding it very hard not to tease, though.

But his angel, his perfect, gorgeous angel, just giggled, curls bouncing around his head like a halo, and Crowley couldn't help but track their movement. There were words, honey-slick and sickly-sweet, stuck in his throat, and the demon tried to swallow around them.

"Go on, I know perfectly well I can't stop you from sharing your opinion, dear boy," Aziraphale teased lightly, leaning back in his chair.

Crowley almost argued they hadn't been friends for long enough for the other to claim such a thing. Then again, he reminded himself, he _had_ promised his fragile heart not to ruin the moment with exactly those types of thoughts.

"No, no." The demon's head swung limply from side to side. "It's just... Such a miserable sod, isn't he? Charles?"

He watched as his friend tilted his head thoughtfully, biting his lips in a way that made Crowley expect an informative if not entirely sober or cohesive argument. It also made him think of stolen kisses under the rain, of lingering caresses under the covers on Sundays. But then again, most things about his angel led to those sick fantasies.

At last, Aziraphale just shrugged, lifting the bottle once more. "He was at quite a miserable point in his life when he wrote it. His wife had just left him, it would have made almost anyone insufferable."

A huff escaped Crowley's lips. He knew all about people _leaving_, about them denying your friendship when all you had ever done was love them. He knew just the way it burnt, the pain of the only being you had ever cared about rejecting you, how it hurt. The hatred, the desperation, filling every atom of your existence. The desire to make the pain heard, gift it all back. Wasn't that why he had decided to fall into slumber he had hoped never to wake up from? Because it might have been excruciating but it couldn't even come close to the pain caused from the mere thought of Crowley lashing out at his angel.

He pressed a sad smile against the couch's cushion, completely missing the mirrored one, hidden behind the throat of a bottle.

* * *

  
Some days Crowley wondered why he even bothered? Why he degraded himself like this, why he pretended he was nothing but a human, a perfect _stranger_ to the only creature he had ever cared about? How he could stand the pain, welcome it even, of his angel looking at him and not seeing him, not like how Crowley wanted to be seen. The way _his_ angel shared his company, smiled at him, touched him. And yet he didn't.

There were many days in which those thoughts would sear the demon's mind, would wrap around his lungs like a snake and sink their venomous fangs inside his heart.

Today was not one of those days.

Aziraphale was gazing wishfully in the distance, a look Crowley had become so deliciously familiar with over the millennia, one that promised the demon a chance to indulge his angel. "What would you like?" he barely managed to stop himself from asking. Even harder was to suppress the desire to snap his fingers and have everything his angel had ever noted a preference towards spread in front of them. But he had experience in telling that little voice inside his head to shut up and sit down, that he wasn't supposed to read his friend so easily, so readily. That even if he was, his help was not welcomed, not when he was a demon and certainly not now, when he was nobody.

He had experience, yes, and yet it was never easy. That promise of a smile, of the gentlest crinkling of eyes, that managed to squeeze something in Crowley's chest that he was not supposed to have. It was like a drug, the sweetest wine and the demon often laid awake and tried not to wonder just how far he would be willing to go to have even one more taste of it.

He never quite liked the answer, so he never really asked the question.

"What are you thinking about, angel?" instead, he asked, that same dull old voice he used when his mind was busy screaming three little words at the void of his soul.

Aziraphale's gaze flicked towards him, warm and not entirely there, before focusing. Before hardening slightly, the shine dimming, as if he had just realised he was not alone.

"Oh, nothing much." His angel waved the question away, but Crowley, his interest suddenly piqued, was having none of it. It took the slightest raising of eyebrows, the most subtle pull of his lips, and when had he needed more, and Aziraphale was babbling, "I was just wondering, is all, how an apple pie would taste. Oh, of course, I know how it _tastes_, but I was considering if it would be just as nice if one was to substitute the apples with pears. I don't much care for apples, you see, too much bad history." Aziraphale sighed and for one tiny moment the demon was glad his friend had stopped long enough to take a breath, before he remembered his angel didn't actually need to. "But I do like pears."

The angel's face turned serious, his voice- adorably somber as he delved into comparing the density of pears and apples, or passionately discussing the amount of sugar he would need to use for the batter to retain the same sweetness. A flush was unfurling over white skin, fairy dust on marble, and Crowley wondered idly how it would taste. Would it be warm? He was suddenly so very very cold. Aziraphale's hands gestured wildly and he tracked the movement, mesmerised.

When a pink tongue peaked out to taste full lips, Crowley had to look away, body twitching in a divine fire, thighs squeezing together. What he was doing was too dangerous. His fingers were burning, curled into a fist.

"Well, we can always try," the demon finally said, cutting short Aziraphale's sudden rant about fruits which would be total rubbish in pies. There were beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. He nodded towards the little kitchen. "I trust you don't keep this just for show?"

His angel shook his head, denying a fact they both knew was true. At least, Aziraphale and _Crowley_ did. It was an important distinction.

"I have told you I don't keep any servants. There is rarely the need."

"That's not what I meant." Crowley tilted his head, smirked with more ease than he felt. There was a cacophony inside his head, words he had never dared name drumming against his skull, scratching at his tongue, threatening to claw their way out. Aziraphale beamed at him, and they just got louder.

He followed his angel to the kitchen, and pretended not to notice when cupboards that had never stored any food inside themselves suddenly had all the ingredients for a pear pie. It was a fair deal, he considered, for Aziraphale limiting his laughter to only a few brief moments when the bag of flour spilled all over his black pants.

There were days when Crowley _hurt_. When he remembered the pain of Falling, his wings burning against the sky, the Grace _ripped_ out of him, the promise that he will never be loved, never be forgiven seared inside his bare bones.

And it was nothing. Nothing compared to the moments when his angel looked at him and saw a stranger. A stranger that he _liked_, one that he would surely prefer to Crowley. When his company and his attention, his love, so freely given, was not meant for the demon, would _never_ be meant for him.

And yet, as Crowley stood in the once immaculate kitchen, with flour all over the wooden boards, pears, in various states of destruction, littering the table, with yolk on the bloody _ceiling_, he realised something. Here his angel was, laughter spilling like a river out of his lips, free and wild. There was a spatter of pear filling on his little nose, batter clinging to his left eyebrow.

It hurt. Satan knew, it did. But it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to squeeze a little bit more in there, but I thought I should probably end on a happyish note. Especially considering what I have planned for next chapter! 
> 
> And, yes, Crowley is _awful_ at this!!! But the guy has been spoiling his angel for almost 6 thousand years, you can't expect him to just stop, can you? Also, he is slightly dumb, so there is that.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale was anxious. It shouldn't have bothered the demon as much as it did, there was rarely a moment when his angel was _not_ fretting over the next inconsequential thing. And Crowley had grown so used to just scoffing and turning away, choking the need to reach out and comfort, covering his affection with his sneer. It was so ingrained in him, for a moment, he forgot he was not the same person any more. He _could_ offer his comfort, his touch, without the fear that he will be pushed away. The knowledge that Aziraphale would welcome it, lean into it, like he had the very few times he had indulged himself this luxury, it was a funny little tickle in the back of his brain. Didn't quite fit, too heavy against all of Crowley's self-loathing and doubt.  
  
But then again, it did, didn't it?  
  
"Anything on your mind?" he asked, gently, tentatively, like a hunter trying not to scare away its prey. He was glad his eyes were covered, he was sure if one was to gaze at them, there would be no question as to who, exactly, was the one vulnerable. His fingers curled around his angel's wrist, tugged it away from where Aziraphale was worrying at a button.  
  
His angel shook his head, but didn't move away. Crowley could feel his heartbeat, a caged bird against the tip of his fingers. Wondered if a kiss would calm it down or send it into a frenzy. Wondered if he even had the self-control to stop himself from finding out anymore.  
  
Aziraphale turned his hand, slid it down a notch. For a moment Crowley wondered if his friend had read his mind, seen the desire cross his features, but surely, he hadn't. Because if he had, if he knew the things the demon was _aching_ to do, his angel would not be entwining their fingers together, raising their hands towards his chest and by doing so dragging the other closer, well over the line Crowley himself had drawn so long ago.  
  
No, he would have probably ran as far away as he could, to somewhere the demon couldn't follow. Perhaps to Heaven, even?  
  
Aziraphale's hand was heavy in his, burning just like the stars once had. Warm and gentle, a crackling fireplace on a snowy day, not the fire of destruction and yet bringing down the demon's every defense.  
  
"Would you mind terribly if I asked you something rather personal, my dear?" Aziraphale finally ventured, his voice mute. Trembling. Crowley could feel his body leaning forward, his other hand itching to wrap around those strong shoulders, now uncharacteristically hunched. It was easy, far too damn easy to continue taking, dancing over lines etched into time itself, once you had taken the first step.  
  
"Anything you want, angel," Crowley whispered and hated how sincere he was. Of course he was, had he not been stupid enough to show his angel just how true those words were, time and time again?  
  
But it seemed it was the right thing to say- something flashed in Aziraphale's eyes, resolve, as hard as steel, and yet so _unbelievably_ soft. One last stilling breath, and his angel was looking at him, the lightning in his gaze flashing in the darkened room.  
  
"Can I inquire as to why you choose to wear the glasses at all times?"  
  
And there was laughter, bubbling inside Crowley's chest, sudden relief entering his bloodstream, as intoxicating as wine. He had been expecting this question, for quite a while now, and he, he was _prepared_.  
  
"Sensitive to light," he shrugged easily. The corners of Aziraphale's mouth turned, his forehead creasing with the intent to argue, but Crowley was quick to cut him short. With one swift move he was removing his glasses, blinking at his angel as the sudden light, the one that wasn't necessarily coming from the oil lamps, assaulted his eyes. He grinned sardonically. "Can't say you are missing a lot, angel."  
  
Crowley raised his head- dirt met a hurricane. There was a flicker of something as their eyes met, so deep inside the demon he could scarcely say if it even was his body or something else, something fundamental that couldn't help but _keen_ any time his angel looked at him. He couldn't afford to dwell on it, to invite all those thoughts of ineffability and fate that had tormented him for an eternity, even when he knew better. Instead, he chose to focus on the thrill of a job well-done. For once in his long demonic career, he had planned ahead and it had paid off, the absence of recognition in his angel's stormy gaze- proof enough.   
  
It was a fact Crowley had never been able to hide. He could change everything about himself, and had done, time and time again. Not his eyes, never his eyes. They both knew that. It served as a warning for everyone that met him, "_Stay away_," it flashed, a mark of his venomous nature. It was God's last punishment and Crowley had thought it would be his undoing, going into this charade.  
  
Even if he could miracle them different, his angel would know. Aziraphale would feel it, would probably be able to taste the acidic aftertaste of a demonic miracle. Crowley had almost thought he had lost, even before he had begun, before he remembered his old friend Leo and one of his more ludicrous inventions. The demon recalled the man chuckling when Crowley lamented his cursed eyes, amused he was about to go against God's very design. Leo had passed away before he could finish, but the idea was there, a crude prototype. It hadn't taken long, afterwards, finding the right person, nudging them in the right direction. Couldn't even be called a demonic intervention, really, could it?  
  
And that's how Crowley found himself, dull brown eyes looking at his angel, with human pupils, that did not quite react to light or anything, really, but he could explain that away easily. He was almost too proud of himself that it took him far longer than usual to realise Aziraphale had yet to say anything. Yet to react in any way.  
  
His angel was pale and frozen, like a beautiful statue. There was something in the way he looked at Crowley, almost as if not seeing him, almost as if he was momentarily looking at something else, something horrible. His chest was raising with an unneeded breath, his pulse, underneath the demon's fingers- wild and fluttering, like a jackrabbit's.  
  
"Is everything okay?" Crowley asked, no longer bothering to hide the tenderness in his voice, like a tipped goblet, always threatening to spill. Drawn by the need to help, to fix whatever this was, he leaned forward, squeezed the suddenly-too-cold hand in his grip. It was enough to bring Aziraphale back to life, and the angel was wincing, moving away, curling in on himself. And through it all, he would not stop watching him, as if Crowley had actually showed him his _real_ eyes.  
  
Startled for a moment, the demon blinked, checking if the lenses were in their place. There was that sharp pain as they dug into him, clumsy human invention that they were but he knew they were unnoticeable. He had spent hours making sure they were, and yet there was still that itch, underneath his skin that told him Aziraphale could see right through them. Why else would he be acting as if Crowley was... _not right,_ somehow?  
  
Blindly, he grasped for his angel's hand, to offer assurance to the other or to himself, he wasn't really sure. But Aziraphale moved away, slightly, subtly, heart-wrenchingly. There was that wretched feeling, tightening around Crowley's lungs, _something's wrong_, and he needed to fix it. Needed to know what he had done, first.  
  
"What's the matter, angel?" he insisted, nerves seeping into his voice. Aziraphale's hand was there, cold, and he wanted nothing more than to curl around it, around his angel, but it was not the right time. He wondered, really, when would it be? He closed his eyes, blinking away the desolate feeling, the weight of which he had grown accustomed to over the millennia. Careful, he reminded himself, or he will know. And then he will leave. And then you will be alone.  
  
Aziraphale could never know.  
  
He felt warmth wrap around his fingers, his hand- tugged from where it laid limp on the armchair and carefully arranged in his angel's lap, so close he could feel the skin burning beneath him, around him. Crowley raised his head, wide eyes trailing to where pale fingers were holding him close, up to chest, still heaving, throat- still convulsing nervously.  
  
"Forgive me," his angel said, the mirth in his voice bitter. "I'm just being silly. A silly old man." Aziraphale shook his head, a huff of laughter escaping through bitten-raw lips. "To actually think..."   
  
His angel looked away, eyelashes fluttering and something in Crowley's heart chipped away. He could have claimed it was all his defenses, all the things that stopped him from, from feeling whatever he was feeling towards the divine creature before him, but he knew better. That part of him had been the first thing to go the moment he had laid eyes on Aziraphale.  
  
"Tell me?" he prompted quietly, squeezing the hand in his grasp. For one terrible moment, he felt just like himself, decades, centuries ago. The same sinful desire to help peeking through, time and time again, over the millennia, when his angel was in trouble or just fussy and Crowley needed but a glance and he would be nodding and following along like a puppy, the sneer on his face- a crude mask hiding something so much more disgusting. Back when the only way he could show his devotion was through helping his friend, the only reason Aziraphale kept him around most probably.  
  
His angel looked at him, gaze sweeping over features etched in concern, the resolute line of Crowley's mouth, and he melted. But not how the demon was so used to seeing him in those rare moments of open tenderness. No, now he looked like something that had given up on being solid, like a candle resigning itself to the flame. It looked horrifying, the sheer sadness on a face, not designed for anything other than expressing angelic delight.  
  
Crowley was on the verge of scooting even closer, centuries of distance he had built so carefully between them all but forgotten, and dragging the other in his arms. Before he could do this, and luckily for both of them he didn't, for he wasn't sure he would have ever been able to let go, it was gone, so suddenly it almost felt like he had imagined it. But the air was still thick with unsaid words, acidic with unshed feelings.  
  
"It's nothing, Anthony. Truly." Aziraphale smiled at him, not quite the radiant sunshine the demon was so used to seeing, but still real, nonetheless. His angel's other hand was curling on top of Crowley's one, trapping it in his grasp and making pleasant shivers waltz up his arm.   
  
There was something wrong, an underlying weight underneath his angel's every move, metal beneath the wool of his voice. For Crowley, a stranger to his friend's gentle caress, it took slightly longer than it normally would have to notice the subtle change in behaviour, over the buzzing in his ears. Once he could, however, not even the warm weight around him could shift his focus.  
  
"But if there is something," Crowley started, hesitated. Did he even have the right to ask, to demand, really, for Aziraphale to share his troubles with him? He had never dared ask, too afraid to show his own selfish needs, back when he had been himself, back when they were something akin to friends. And it was not as if his angel had told him anything, too used to Crowley taking a single look at him and just _knowing_.

But, surely, they were closer now, weren't they?  
  
Aziraphale beamed at him, a silent confirmation to his question that shouldn't have made dread seep into his heart. "Of course. I know I can tell you anything." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yes, I lied, Aziraphale _suspected_. Not anymore, poor thing. Do you not hate it how Crowley is so incompetent 99% of the time but when you expect him to fail, he is suddenly Mr. Preparedness?
> 
> On an interesting note, the first functioning contact lenses were actually invented at the end of the 19th century, and contact lenses are literally the work of the devil so there is that!
> 
> Again, thank you very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed me breaking their hearts again!


	6. Chapter 6

It was not going to be a good day. Crowley had that feeling, like a scratch at the back of his mind, even before he entered the bookshop and promptly froze in his place. It was, in hindsight, his own fault. The last time they had met in the club Aziraphale had been... distant, closed, in a way Crowley had never been on the receiving end of. It made him feel funny, as if he was a stranger in his angel's life and he had thought he had known how that felt, when he first introduced himself as Anthony.

How utterly wrong he had been.

Nonetheless, it had been a week, ever since that night in the bookshop and Aziraphale had missed 2 of their usual meetings. So Crowley, a desperate need he would never admit to- sloshing in his lungs, drowning him, had decided to visit the bookshop. Unprompted. And then had wished that he hadn't, or rather, that he could extend his fangs, let them glisten in the dark, let them rip into pale flesh.

Because Aziraphale was not _alone_. No, not only was that feather-fucking, holier-than-thou piece of angelic shit Gabriel there, but he was touching him, touching _his_ angel. Crowley had always hated him, even back in Heaven, when he didn't quite know the meaning of that word. He couldn't stand him, once he turned a demon, him and what he represented, what Aziraphale would choose, time and time again, over Crowley. Now, now he could barely stop himself from tearing apart arms that were holding broad shoulders, growling at a smile that was always too wide, too fake.

Belatedly, the bell above him chimed happily, causing both ethereal beings to turn towards him. And then before Crowley could do something that would have felt so satisfying at the moment but something he would have, undoubtedly regretted, Gabriel was taking a step back, his arms falling to his sides. With a smile, a bow and a, "Good day, fellow human," he was leaving and the demon could only stare after him.

"What was his problem?" Crowley turned towards Aziraphale, letting only confusion seep to the surface and burrowing all those other emotions, demonic and ugly, deep inside himself. His angel shrugged, but there was something rigid in his movements, weary. Crowley pretended he couldn't see it. "I have something for you."

It took the bottle of wine Crowley had brought along, and then another one from Aziraphale stash, before the angel had started opening up.

"Do you ever wonder if the stars look down on us?" Aziraphale slurred all of a sudden. He was sprawled on the couch, not a trace of his usual primness in the way half his limbs were dangling from the edge, staring up at the ceiling, as if he was looking at the sky. There was something strangely tantalizing in seeing his angel like that, or there would have been, had Crowley not been able to feel the underlying anguish behind his friend's posture, behind his words.

"Hell, angel, how much have you had?" Crowley tried to tease, his smirk sharp against the worry on his face. Whatever Aziraphale was about to retort was drowned by the bottle the angel had swiftly pressed against his lips. There was a little droplet of wine clinging to too-pale skin when the other moved the bottle away, and for once in his life Crowley didn't have to stop himself from eyeing it hungrily. The wine reminded him of blood, gushing from a wound he had yet to find and the helplessness of it all- it made the demon sick to his stomach.

"Do you think they judge us, from up there?" Aziraphale insisted, pointing a trembling finger heavenward. He looked so dazed, so completely out of it and Crowley was moving before he could even realise it, kneeling in front of the couch.

"I think they are too busy being flaming balls of gas to think about us," he replied offhandedly, more to drown the concern pounding against his skull than anything. "Is there something wrong, angel?"

Aziraphale shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. But he didn't object when Crowley pried the bottle from his suddenly loose fingers and the demon counted it a success, as much as he could. In silence, they stood for a while, the only sound between them- the angel's shallow breaths, and Crowley yearned to touch him, his fingertips vibrating as if they were already gliding across soft skin. It wasn't the time, he knew his angel enough to be aware of this. If he wanted his friend to talk, to open up, what he needed to do was give him space. Careful, unassuming, setting the trap then walking away.

He couldn't walk away, not really, not now, not ever. So he settled for kneeling in front of the quivering form before him, as far away from the other as he could possibly bear, all of his energy focused on not moving, not touching.

It took a few minutes but finally, with a sigh, Aziraphale was talking, the slight slur in his voice somehow even more pronounced than before.

"I don't think I can tell up from down anymore."

The laughter ripped out of Crowley's lips, so sudden, it almost startled him. The weight was still there, ants dancing underneath his skin, the part of his brain, always attuned to his angel- screaming at him that something was terribly wrong. But for a single moment, Aziraphale sounded drunk-stupid and petulant, a child that expected the universe to rearrange itself around him. And, damn him, Crowley would never let mundane things like the laws of physics or gravity stop him from giving his angel everything he had ever wanted.

"That _might_ possibly be because of the way you are half-lying on the couch. Come on, let's get you up." Wrapping his fingers around the other's shoulders, _don't linger, don't linger_, Crowley dragged his angel up, rearranging his limbs so he was sitting comfortably. Desperately, he tried to ignore how their position made him feel, that burning, low in his belly, when he gazed up at Aziraphale from the floor. There was enough space, on the sofa, now, and yet he made no move to occupy it. "Are you finally going to tell me what happened?"  
  
"I received a commendation today," his angel said simply, as if it explained everything. Crowley's mind flashed back to Gabriel, to purple eyes and _too close_ and he had to bite back a growl. "For being excellent at... selling books, I suppose."

The demon tried to suppress his grin, the image of Aziraphale being a proper shopkeeper far too amusing. Still, he couldn't help but voice his mirth, "In all the time I have known you I have yet to see you sell a single book." There was a joke hidden in his statement, one he was the only one privy to.

His angel pointedly ignored him, just like he ignored him every other time Crowley brought up his salesmanship. Another sigh, another frown as Aziraphale's shoulders straightened up, unnaturally rigid.

"It is a great honor and I have always-" Aziraphale's breath hitched, his hands clasping together nervously. "And all I could ever think was how utterly _stupid_ the whole thing was."

For a moment the angel froze, suddenly realizing what he had just said. But then anger replaced apprehension as he seemed to decide that it no longer mattered.

"I have followed blindly, _always_ putting He- them before everything. I never dis-, dis-, not did what I was told." Aziraphale's voice was high, wild in a way Crowley had never heard before. "And I realised how _tired_ of sacrificing myself I was, of ignoring what_ I_ want, those selfish, ridiculous needs."

The demon drew in a sharp breath, suddenly too aware of what exactly his angel was saying, the danger of it. The sound was enough to cut Aziraphale's rant short and make his friend's hazy eyes snap in his direction.

"Do you think that makes me a bad person?"

Perhaps Crowley could have laughed at how ridiculous that question was. How easy the answer was. If not for the way Aziraphale was looking at him, worry lines cut into the silk of his face, his lips- trembling. His eyes- glistening uncharacteristically.

"You could never be a bad person, angel," he whispered, hating the reverent way his voice came out. Without thinking, he reached out, his hand cradling his angel's side. Feather-soft and gentle, he pressed his thumb under Aziraphale's eye, gathering the sudden wetness. The feeling in his heart was growing, too big for it now, for his whole body it seemed and he tried to joke, "I don't think you should worry, anyway. I _saw_ that guy and if it was me, I would not want to listen to that prat, either."

He could feel a smile crack beneath his palm and he pressed down, slightly, as if to shield it from the world.

"What do you want, angel? I will help, anything you want. Just name it."

He knew he sounded desperate. Perhaps he was. There was nothing harder than looking at his angel, the waves in those eyes high enough to drown, and knowing he could do _nothing_ to help. He wondered if it would have been different had Aziraphale shared how he felt decades ago, if there would have been something the demon could have done. But then again, his angel most probably wouldn't have even opened up about it to him. Crowley was temptation, he was burning wings and silver tongue and clawed hands. He was an infection and it took all his self-control not to wince when he realised he might as well have put those thoughts into the angel's head himself.

Because wasn't that what he had always wanted? For Aziraphale to question Heaven and their orders, to see them for who they really were? And now, when he had finally gotten what he had always wanted, there was but one picture seared on the back of his eyelids. White feathers, smoldering against the sky.

"I can no longer have what I want. Not anymore." Aziraphale smiled at him, a broken, fragile thing, much like the demon's own heart. But there were no more tears, clouding beautiful eyes, and Crowley had to force himself to move his hand away, wincing at the cold that seeped beneath his skin, once he did. His angel shifted before him. There was a question on his tongue, behind the twitching of his fingers, the enormity of it clear by the way Aziraphale braced himself before he unleashed it.

"How can you be such a good friend to me?"

'Because I can be," Crowley wanted to reply. 'Because I can finally show you everything I have hidden from you for eons, all those ugly urges and sinful desires, without fear of rejection. Without your disgust. Because I-'

But he didn't say that. No, what he let tumble out of his lips was far worse.

"Because I love you."

Together, they froze.

It had felt right at the moment- finally giving way to those words, burning in his mouth. There was a certain freedom that came with knowing he could let them loose, after all the millennia of swallowing them down, smirking around them, drowning them, even in his own mind. Because even if Aziraphale rejected him, all nice words and reassuring smiles, like the demon knew he would, it wouldn't _hurt_ as much. Because then Crowley could tell himself that his angel hadn't denied him his love, not really. He had simply rejected a human he had known for less than a few months.

At least that's how he had rationalised it to himself, too cowardly to admit, even in the confines of his own mind, that he simply could no longer control those words. They had become too powerful, growing in the spaces between _never-were_s and_ would-be_s, coming back stronger each time Crowley chocked them down. And now, when they were hanging between them, heavy as tar, sticky, unclean, they felt big enough to choke him back.

Too dazed, he didn't notice Aziraphale reaching out for him. Only when fingers curled around his glasses, tugged them off, did he snap back into his own body. He watched as his angel carefully folded the shades, put them on the table, slowly, methodically, as if using the time to gather his own thoughts.

Their eyes met. There was a flicker of something, contorting Aziraphale's whole face, a dreadful thing that was gone too soon for Crowley to make sense of it. And then there was his angel, looking at him with gentleness the demon knew he didn't deserve. It was soft and it was Good, shining through as if it would never stop and it would never leave and everything might just be alright and Crowley _ached_.

He had been certain he would be rejected. He wasn't so sure anymore.

"Don't say that," his angel breathed out and Crowley could see the words forming between them, could feel the breath that had carried them out on his cheek. Mesmerised, he leaned closer.

"Why?"

They were so close, closer than the demon had ever allowed them to be and it felt warm. As if Aziraphale was a radiant sun, a supernova, that Crowley had finally found himself in the orbit of. Dimly, he realised he would rather burn, engulfed in the flames, than welcome the cold galaxy alone, ever again.

Aziraphale's eyes flicked towards his lips, just for a second before meeting his gaze once again, before widening. Something snapped in them, something that made Crowley feel dirty and the whole act- sinful, in a way not even a demon would like. It almost felt like Crowley himself was plucking out his angel's wings and setting them on fire, one feather at a time. He reeled back.

"I'm sorry, angel." His whispered words felt like a scream, echoing between the suddenly too large of a distance between them. Crowley stretched a hand, dimly wondered how he was even able to reach across that vast expanse, and let the warm weight of Aziraphale's cheek settle beneath his fingers. This time, there were no tears for him to banish. Not yet. "I didn't meant to pressure you."

Aziraphale leaned into the touch, eyelashes fluttering like a butterfly's wings. For a moment, it felt like something would break, something would give.

"You must understand I can't, I can't accept your feelings." And Aziraphale was drawing back, shrinking. There was that smile- gentle reassurance, the same one that had featured inside Crowley's nightmares so many times. "It wouldn't be fair for you."

Crowley smiled back. It looked a caricature of a real smile and yet it had never felt more real. "I don't care about myself."

He had said everything he had ever been desperate to say, all those words he knew by heart, better than his own damn self. Words that had lived inside his mind, pounding against his temples, acid on his tongue. He should have felt relieved. He only felt empty. As if he had been but a vessel for those words, like slowly, over time, they had taken over his whole being- a hungry parasite, and now when they were finally set free he was just a husk. Empty and so, so, cold.

There was something that strongly resembled sorrow in the way his angel was looking at him. Crowley had thought he couldn't hurt any more, that he had no more heart to break. Once again, he had been wrong.

"I think I should go," he said slowly, more to himself than to the statue before him. And then he was getting up, moving on legs that would not shake if they knew what was good for them. He was across the room, fingers wrapped around a doorknob, when Aziraphale's voice reached him.

"Will I see you on Wednesday, my dear?"

Small, tentative. As if Crowley had ever had a choice. Against the light of the doorway, the demon nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever write something and then you are like, "Wow, I made myself sad." Cause I need something fluffy now! On the other hand, to make you and myself feel better- you know that nice "Courtship" tag? It's coming!!!


	7. Chapter 7

As most things are prone to, it started with alcohol. Quite a lot of it, really.

Crowley was tired of it. He was sick of using another man's voice, his face, his name. He was sick of the way Aziraphale would flinch sometimes when looking at him, just barely, and still, a ruthless dagger digging into flesh for someone who had spent the whole of history tracing the angel's every move. It hurt even more when, more often than not, his friend would smile at him, lean closer, touch his hand.

Most of all, Crowley was growing tired of his fucking lenses digging at him, making his eyes sting. At least, he hoped it was the lenses.

It was a nice night, but then again all nights spent on his angel's couch were. Aziraphale was sitting next to him, all flushed cheeks and gesturing hands and words, tumbling one after the other, as if each one racing to be first. He was beautiful. He always was. It was easy for Crowley to allow himself those thoughts, in the head of a different man.

His angel was talking about his most recently purchased book. Or was it maybe about that new author he had met? Crowley couldn't really tell and before he could force himself to listen, to _remember_, Aziraphale was ending his rant with a happy sigh and the slightest hint of a wiggle. And Crowley adored him. His every move, his every fucking tell, how bloody annoying and righteous and gorgeous his angel was. It hit him so suddenly, a tsunami of blue eyes and white feathers, for a moment it was all he could feel, all around him. _Love_.

It took him long, too long, to realise it was also spilling out of him, that ancient feeling, woven inside his very soul. Shining, the only Good thing that could ever exist inside him, it seemed. A pressure against all his carefully constructed barriers, the edges of his being, older than mountains, than continents.

For a moment, Crowley forgot himself. For a single moment, this fixed point in time and space, it hung between them, heavy and thick.

It was enough.

Aziraphale froze next to him and when he turned to look at Crowley there was brightness in his eyes that tore at the demon's heart. His full lips opened, forming a question, but never delivering it, instead, settling onto a sigh. There was nothing Crowley could do, nothing he could say, the apology stuck in his throat, that wouldn't give him away. So he stood there, a demon on Judgement day.

And then it happened. Slowly, hesitantly, Aziraphale leaned his head against his friend's shoulder, letting his body relax against the other's ever so slightly. Crowley's heart skipped a beat, and then, it seemed, decided to give up on working completely.

* * *

Crowley wasn't entirely sure how he had ended up here, hand in hand with his angel, hopping to this _terrible_ music. No self-respecting demon would have ever been caught like this, but then again, when had he ever cared about that definition. And he couldn't ignore the fact that this, it was nice. Aziraphale was happy, for one, laughing in almost crazed delight. It was the furthest thing he could have imagined when his angel had told him he had been going to dance lessens for a few weeks now. That some Mark or William had invited him, and honestly how many humans was Crowley supposed to be fighting for his friend's attention now? And then Aziraphale was looking at him, wide blue eyes and full lips pouting and asking him if perhaps he would like to join him next time and what was the demon supposed to say?

So, yes, he had expected it to be far worse than it really was. There were humans _touching_ him, yes, which was far from ideal. And the happiness around him, young men finally able to express feelings they had long suppressed- heavy in the room, like a thick perfume that made Crowley's nostrils itch. As soon as he could, he excused himself, opting for instead watching the delight on his angel's face from a safe distance.

"Are you certain, my dear? Would you like me to keep you company?" Aziraphale questioned, his arm still linked with Crowley's, making it hard for the demon to respond straight away.

Finally, he was able to shake his head. "You have fun, angel. I'll be right here."

It should have felt like a punishment, sitting on the sidelines and watching his angel have fun, without him. It was anything but. Aziraphale looked almost feral with glee, his smile wild and wide, his eyes shining, spinning, like stars. He was beautiful and Crowley's fingers itched to run over his sides, drag him closer and find out if there were other ways to make him as happy as he was now. So engulfed in his fantasy, the demon barely noticed someone sit next to him. He tried to ignore it, what would a mere human have to say that was more important than the vision before him, but it was getting increasingly hard, what with the way the man was staring at him, as if annoyed by the lack of attention.

Crowley's eyes finally snapped towards him and he was not surprised to realise he couldn't recognise him. The human was conventionally attractive, high cheekbones, good nose, but then again, so were most members of the club. The demon's eyebrows rose in question.

"Mark," the man said. The annoyance was crystal in his voice, but it took him a mere moment to bring it under control and turn it into a confident smile. Crowley couldn't help but almost admire that. "I'm aware you are not to share personal information but whatever Ezra wants, he gets. And we are more than happy to oblige. Wouldn't you agree?"

There was a drop of arrogance painting that smile now, as if this _human_ knew Aziraphale better than him and Crowley wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or rip his throat out. His lips curled up, showing off sharp canines, a clear indication as to what he was leaning towards.

"I couldn't help but notice you showed a certain interest towards him. I admire that, I do, and I was hoping you would heed the advice of someone who has been here far longer," the human was babbling, unaware of the thin rope he was dancing on, how close he was to tumbling down. He was trying to appear genuinely helpful, but the envy and hatred wafting out of him was putrid. Crowley let his head cock to one side, the only indication he was still part of the conversation.

For a moment, they stood in silence and then the man sighed. He leaned forward, dropping the smile, dropping the pretense he cared as he hissed in Crowley's ear, "I know what you are thinking- he is cute and pretty and very easy to talk to. I get it, how can you resist that little innocent lamb? But I am telling you now, he is _mine_. I have been working on him for months now and I will not have some pretty boy waltz in here and steal him from underneath me. Do we understand each other?" The human grinned, taking Crowley's silence as a sign he was getting his point across. He continued, almost mockingly, "You are handsome, I'm sure we can find you something that would better suit your tastes."

Crowley threw his head back and laughed. Dimly, he realised the music was ending, he had but a few moment for this and, Satan, he was going to _enjoy_ it. Lowering his shades, he let his real eyes shine through.

"Listen to me, you pathetic worm," he snarled through sharp fangs. "I don't know what gave you the idea that _he_ will let you touch him, but the next time you even think about _looking_ at _my angel_ I want you to remember this." He leaned forward, his forked tongue ghosting against the man's throat, venomous. The music had stopped, there was a round of applause and Crowley willed his skin to soften, whiten. "I can find you and I can make you wish I had killed you. Do _we_ understand each other?"

Martin or David was pale as a sheet in front of him, body wrecked in wordless tremors and the demon didn't really expect an answer. He felt more than heard Aziraphale approach them as he tugged his glasses back on. But there must have been something on his face, some tension behind his easy smile, because his angel needed one look at him for his brow to furrow and for him to question, "Is everything okay, Anthony?"

And the thing was- it wasn't. Crowley was still shaking in rage and his mouth felt too full for him to open it. Without thinking, without giving himself time to stop, he curled a hand around his friend's wrist and dragged him out. And didn't stop until he found them a nice quiet corner where they wouldn't be bothered and where he could press Aziraphale against the wall and slide his body against his angel's.

It took him a second to realise that he hadn't planned that far ahead. Honestly, he hadn't even planned the last part. But there was something delicious in the way his angel was pressed against him, chest heaving from the dance, cheeks still flushed and hair wild. There was something _divine_ in the way Aziraphale was looking up at him, open and trusting, pinned to a wall, in such an isolated place and yet the worst Crowley could see in his friend's eyes was worry. Worry for the demon, for his well-being.

"You are beautiful."

The words slipped out of his mouth and it hurt how true they were. It hurt even more that he had gone almost 6 millennia without saying them. Aziraphale flushed, his eyes turning downcast.

"Oh, you probably say that to every one of your friends back in the country."

Crowley's face hardened. "Only you. There has only ever been you."

He curled his fingers into a fist, careful not to reach out, not to touch. They were so close and, Satan help him, he knew, he simply knew, that if he got even a feel of that skin, he wouldn't be able to stop. It felt easy to quiet the beast inside his belly when Aziraphale shook his head, pressing his back firmly against the wall. Almost unconsciously, Crowley took a step back.

"We can't. I'm sorry. I can't."

"Don't tell me you think what's between our legs should stop us from enjoying ourselves," the demon teased, lips twisting easily. He was joking, of course he was, they had lived on this earth for so long he knew Aziraphale would never even think this would be an issue. But it felt better to poke fun and to insinuate than to give voice to the way he felt his heart was crumbling, ever so slowly, inside his chest.

"Of course not! Love is love, no matter what." Aziraphale scowled up at the demon as if he had insulted him greatly. Then, his features softened, worry lines deepening as his fingers curled around and tugged at his waistcoat's buttons. Finally, the angel steadied himself with a deep breath. "It's just, there is someone else. Someone who already has my heart."

Crowley recoiled as if he had been slapped. "Someone else?" was all he could manage to hiss between clenched teeth. Someone else? Someone _his_ angel, no, not his, not anymore. Never his. Oh, he was going to be sick. "Who?"

He shook his head. Aziraphale shouldn't tell him. Satan help him, he was going to kill them, whoever they were and then his angel would never look at him again. Luckily, his friend still hadn't looked up, because there would have been no way for the demon to explain how his eyes were suddenly flashing amber behind his glasses or the blotch of iridescent that had blossomed high on his cheekbones for just a moment before he had taken a hold of himself.

"A very dear friend of mine," Aziraphale finally murmured and it was so soft, so reverent, Crowley was sure that whoever it was, they didn't deserve it. Come to think of it, he was sure no one ever would.

"And they know? How you feel?" The words felt like lead, heavy in his mouth, even heavier once they were out.

Aziraphale nodded, a sharp move of the head. "He knows. Of course, he does. After everything."

Crowley gulped in air like a drowning man, finally escaping the clutches of the sea. However, he just felt like he was sinking deeper. But there was one more question he needed to ask, just one more and he would never... He would forget about those disgusting feelings he had grown so familiar with, he would scrub the memory of Aziraphale's skin next to his, the way his breath felt on the demon's face. He would even try to be _glad _for his friend. First, he needed to know.

"Are you happy, with him?"

The moment he asked, Crowley hated himself for it. He hated himself for how it came out, the way his voice trembled, the way he had to force the word 'happy' through his lips. How pathetic and stupid it sounded, the same way the demon felt.

Aziraphale flinched, a subtle, wicked thing that the demon would have missed if he hadn't been so close he could feel the movement against his skin, taste the sudden shift in the air. Then, his angel was shaking his head and Crowley knew what he was going to say before the other could even wrap his tongue around the words.

"You misunderstand, my dear. Our relationship, I'm afraid, it's simply professional."

He should have felt relieved, glad even, hearing this. But how could he? How could he rejoice in the worry lines surrounding eyes that should never look so dejected, features that should know nothing but joy? Crowley loved him, damn him, but he did. And he was starting to realise, quite suddenly and even more painfully, that meant he wanted the angel happy, with or without him. Thankfully, he was still frozen in shock to voice the sentiment. No, instead, he was stupefied, his brain unable to curl around the concept of someone having his angel's love and rejecting it.

Misunderstanding Crowley's silence, Aziraphale continued talking, his words- both a salve and the cause of the demon's pain.

"Make no mistake, he has been nothing but cordial to me. Yet, every time I try to move our relationship from simple acquaintanceship he never fails to move away. And I'm more than capable of interpreting the signs he doesn't feel the same way."

The angel finally lifted his head, the curve of his lips- a most devastating sight. There was so much in the single pull of those delicious plump lines, longing, pain that Crowley had only ever seen in his own heart. The demon winced at the sudden stab he felt, right below the rib-cage. He didn't know whether the pain he felt was towards his angel or himself.

"Please, don't pity me," Aziraphale sighed, voice dull and mute. Crowley had to force himself to smirk, laugh. Melt the ice that had replaced the blood in his veins and shake his head.

"I don't pity you, angel. If anything, I feel sorry for the miserable sod that's too blind to see how _Good_ you are."

The way Aziraphale's eyes snapped towards him, so full of raw wonder, it made Crowley want to step closer, envelop him in his love, in his utter worship. He let himself take a step forward, crowding the other against the wall.

"You are brilliant and gorgeous and, frankly, he sounds like he doesn't deserve you."

He couldn't help the fierce way the words left his mouth and could only be glad for the sunglasses obscuring the dangerous way his eyes were flashing. In the end, it was worth it, if only for the hint of something real behind his angel's smile when their eyes met again.  
  
There was so much Crowley wanted to say at that moment, admissions that would make a demon burn in shame, adoration that would feel almost sacrilegious. But he was used to silencing those urges. He took a step back, gave an easy smile.

"Come now. I'm sure I heard there was another type of gavotte that involves kissing. Why don't we go back to yours and practice it some?"

"Anthony!" his angel admonished, puckering his lips to hide the way they curled in an answering smile. For a moment, it all felt normal, mundane even, as they fell into an easy step. Even as Aziraphale scrunched his eyebrows, looking pensive, and asked, "You are joking, of course, aren't you? It's just, I am almost positive I heard the same thing from Mark the other day." Which in turn made the demon vow to pay a little visit to their mutual friend. Nothing too _murderous_, of course. There weren't many ways one could explain away the sudden appearance of a human turned inside out, after all.

It was almost enough to make Crowley forget his angel's words. Perhaps even dull the ache in his heart. He had known, of course he had, that he could never have him. He had made peace with that fact the moment he had laid eyes on him, that pure creature, standing guard over the humans. And there Crowley had been, slithering in the dirt. Unlovable. Unforgivable.

Yet, it hurt, knowing he had no chance. That no matter how hard he tried, the gifts, the rescues, the bloody fact he would do anything for his angel, he would never be allowed to stand as his equal.

_'He is not my friend. We have never met before. We don't know each other.'_

The words scorched Crowley's mind, as if freshly spoken. They weren't friends, no matter what the demon was so used to calling them in the privacy of his useless brain. Crowley wanted, Satan knew, he did. But then again, there were many things he desired, each one more ridiculous and horrible than the last.

Except they were now, weren't they? Wasn't that the point of all this secrecy, the new name, the new face? To be Aziraphale's _friend_. And maybe, just maybe, that daft little part of his brain whispered demonically, something more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dumbassery thickens! 
> 
> So, some context. Long ago, I read this theory that back in the church, Aziraphale didn't come to terms with his own feelings but realised Crowley loved him. Think about it, basically, before that the demon could always explain away his help with how his actions were beneficial to _the Arrangement_ but that night, Crowley came to help him because he cared, and he saved his books because he loved him. Which, I honestly loved the idea of and have implemented here. Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley was not jealous. It was important to note that he was not and could not be jealous of an inconsequential human being who had enticed his angel, who had managed to do something the demon had been hoping for for millennia. That it was ridiculous to think a simple _human_ could ever even deserve Crowley's jealousy.  
  
"Tell me about him," and yet he found himself asking.  
  
He didn't know why. What good would it do, knowing what the man that held the only thing he had ever wanted looked like? What made him better than the demon? And why was Crowley so desperate to hurl whatever little remained of his heart into a vat of acid and watch as it dissolved completely?  
  
He was growing too comfortable, he realised in a flash of sudden uncharacteristic clarity. He was visiting his angel almost every day now, no longer needing to disguise his desires as temptations, no longer needing the excuses and the scoffs he hid behind. He almost, _almost_ felt like he had a chance. And who else to ruin it but his own damn self.  
  
Aziraphale looked up from his glass. There had always been something about his face, something that spoke of underlying happiness, a smile as if buried deep beneath the skin, trying to shine through and just waiting for a moment to emerge. Crowley could have explained it away with the fact his friend was a literal angel, except he had seen other people, other angels. No one exuded the type of kindness and happiness _his_ Aziraphale did.  
  
And yet, nothing could compare to the smile the other gave him at the question, gaze- already staring dreamily in the distance.  
  
"He is lovely," Aziraphale whispered, words so reverent, so soft and still- sharp as a knife. "He is kind. Not that _I_ would ever say that to him, or all Hell would break loose." His angel laughed, a cheery thing that vibrated through Crowley's whole body. "Whenever I'm with him, it feels... simple. As if, just for a moment, the world doesn't exist. It's just me and him. And nothing else is important."  
  
Their eyes met and Aziraphale blinked, gaze sharpening. His smile, once dazedly charming, stilled, morphed into a line, etched into stone. His plump lips fell open, to take it all back or to apologise, and Crowley wasn't sure which one would be worse.  
  
"So he is a real angel, just like you," the demon hurried to tease, smirk, cut Aziraphale's words before they had had the chance to cut him.  
  
Too busy with the sudden onslaught of purple eyes and white wings onto his conscious, he missed the way Aziraphale hummed with mirth. 

* * *

  
Courting Aziraphale, Crowley found, once he realised that was exactly what he was doing, was hard. His angel was fussy and irritable and so incredibly particular about everything- his food, his wine, his books. Aziraphale had 10 different favourite kind of teas, depending on the mood he was currently in, and luckily for Crowley, he knew them all.  
  
He had spent centuries, millennia, cataloguing everything his angel liked, every tick, every grimace. And for the first time in a very long while, he felt free to use all his carefully curated information. There was something in not having to lie to himself and his friend, concoct intricate plans in order to spend one afternoon with Aziraphale. Something that fell on the tip of his tongue like the first breath of fresh air after spending an eternity in a prison of his own making. And Crowley, Crowley couldn't get enough of it.  
  
So he gave in to all those instincts he had buried so deep inside himself he no longer knew where they ended and he began. The gifts, that was easy. He had allowed himself the occasional indulgence, handing Aziraphale priceless relics, antiques and books men would kill for as if they were some random trinket he had found on the street. Always scoffing and growling when his angel offered his gratitude, always looking away, afraid that the other would be able to see inside his soul, see the reason behind those actions.  
  
And yet he was unable to stop, always chasing after the next smile, the next time their hands would brush as Crowley thrust a Bible, containing a mistake that made it too valuable, into his angel's grasp. The way Aziraphale's eyes would twinkle, his lips would try to form words before he could think better of it.  
  
No, gifts were easy. They were familiar. They didn't quite scratch that itch anymore. But there were many other things Crowley had been aching to do, even before humans had even thought of them, that he could finally allow himself to.  
  
They had gone to the park. Crowley could admit, in the confines of his own mind as long as he promised to never mention it again, that he had always wanted to do this. And soon enough, the opportunity had presented itself. He had made sure to be around Aziraphale on a Wednesday, just after a light brunch in the local coffee shop, when his angel had turned to him and, like clockwork, had asked him if he wanted to accompany him for a walk in St. James's Park. As he always did. Unlike every other time, however, Crowley had let the smile pull at his lips as he had agreed. And he had indulged in the way Aziraphale's eyes had widened, slightly, before sparkling in that beautiful way of theirs that made the demon want to promise him the world.   
  
He could say it was because dates were an important part of any courtship. He could, without fail, point out how many times his angel had asked him, both _before_ and now, that pure hope shining in his eyes that, for just a moment, would turn into dejection when the demon laughed it off. What he would never do was admit how much he had wanted to take his angel up on his offer. To have a languid stroll around the park, hand nestled in his angel's grip as if it had always belonged there. To chat about the most useless of things, instead of having to swap details of their most recent missions. To feed the ducks.  
  
It was soft, everything he had ever not-imagined and Crowley was not. So he grit his teeth and mocked Aziraphale that surely he had better things to do than make the local wildlife fat and then went home and got unbelievable, indescribably drunk.  
  
Crowley was not soft. But Anthony was. And Anthony got to walk beside Aziraphale, his angel's arm burning where it was looped around his own. And he was allowed that stupid sappy smile as the other chattered happily, the same bounce in his step being present in his voice.  
  
"... And I found it most interesting how it served as a metaphor of our world. How we can never truly trust our senses."  
  
"Hm?" Crowley absentmindedly asked, while fighting every instinct in his body not to rest his hand over Aziraphale's, maybe even lace their fingers together. His angel squinted at him, nose scrunching in that adorable way of his and at first, the demon thought maybe somehow the other was able to read his thoughts. But if that was the case, Aziraphale would not be patting his arm playfully, huffing in the way that said, '_I should be mad at you but I can't possible be_'.  
  
This time he tried to pay attention.  
  
"I was talking about the new book I recently purchased on Plato. It is such a shame I haven't been able to find much information about him previously. I especially found most fascinating his Allegory of the Cave. You see..."  
  
Crowley couldn't help but snort. Firstly, because of how relatable the whole thing to their situation was. And secondly, because he vividly remembered the night that allegory had been created. Aziraphale shot him a curious look, not at all bothered by the way he had been interrupted, and the demon shrugged.  
  
"Sorry, angel. I just remembered reading that the whole thing was not as important as most people make it out to be. As far as I can recall, it was just a result of Plato wanting to escape his students, holing himself into a cave with a friend and getting wasted, then proceeding to try to guess what the shadows cast by the fire looked like."  
  
It was, Crowley realised a bit belatedly, fortunate that Aziraphale did not question a fact that would undoubtedly not be present in any book. Nor did the angel think to ask who the friend had been. No, he just took his word for it, chuckling lightly and wiggling happily at the new information he had been presented with. Crowley felt his heart swell in his chest and growled at it to remind it how inappropriately it was behaving.  
  
Without either of them noticing, their feet had led them to the pond and Crowley reached inside his jacket, where a bag of duck feed had been waiting patiently. He was prepared. Had been for a few days, not that he would ever admit to it. Not even when Aziraphale beamed at him, his eyes crinkling in that soft way of his.  
  
'I love you,' Crowley thought again, the words crashing over him suddenly but, strangely, not so unexpectedly. Because, standing here, Aziraphale's smile shining just as brightly as the sun, finally being allowed to indulge in something that should have felt innocent but for the demon, it was more sinful than any temptation he had ever attempted, what else could he possibly feel.  
  
The Love swelled inside him, as if too large for his body, and then seeped out, hanging between them, heavy and sickly sweet. His angel stiffened at his side, the only reaction Aziraphale would ever show during the rare times Crowley wouldn't be able to control his emotions. Rare, yes, and yet, turning more and more frequent. The demon was not stupid enough to be able to fool himself that he was not slowly, but surely losing the ability to contain his emotions. It must have been one of the side effects of revealing his feelings to Aziraphale, one Crowley had, unsurprisingly, not taken into account.  
  
Not that it mattered now, Crowley tried to chase away the regret, the shame eating at him. Aziraphale knew of his feelings, there was no point in stuffing them back inside, ignoring the way their sharp claws clung at him every time the other so much as smiled in his direction. It could even be... useful. Certainly, whatever Crowley felt, it would help entice the angel away from the person he had devoted _his_ love to. He had to be grateful that his friend had not taken one single whiff of his desperation and abandoned him.  
  
One look at the way Aziraphale was holding the bag the demon had thrust into his hands, as if it was something precious, and he didn't even have to try that hard.  
  
"Thank you," his friend said, a gentle whisper that made strange things happen to Crowley's body. Like making him think the other was thanking him for something else, something far more intimate. Like making him smile like he would have never let himself do if he had been standing there in his true form.  
  
That stupid feeling grew, pulsing between them, until it was the only thing Crowley could sense. Yet it never felt suffocating, in some way. The demon had thought it would be, after so many years, centuries, _millennia_ of trying to keep it hidden. It was... comforting. As if it had always supposed to be there, humming in the distance like a song the demon had heard so long ago and was just now remembering.  
  
Without thinking, he reached out and slipped his hand in Aziraphale's, entwining their fingers, his thumb pressing against the other's wrist. His angel stiffened for a moment, just long enough for Crowley to wonder if he had crossed the line, if he had finally succeeded into making the other uncomfortable. But then it was over, his angel squeezing his hand gently as if he never wanted to let go. Wasn't that a thought?  
  
They fed the ducks quietly, or rather Aziraphale did. Not wanting to let go of his grip on his angel, unsure when, if, he would be allowed this touch again, Crowley resigned himself to just holding the bag for him. It was still perfect. Of course, Crowley was startled by the thought that so suddenly ambushed his mind, he would always be happy when he had Aziraphale next to him.  
  
And yet, he realised, the same couldn't be said for his friend. With every passing minute, Aziraphale was growing more rigid by his side, gaze lost in the distance even as he threw the food at the ducks. The last part was what told Crowley that something was, irrevocably, wrong. His angel had his moments, fewer and fewer between now, when he would grow cold, distant. When the light in his eyes would be so dim Crowley would think, for one terrible second, that he had finally done it, that his darkness had finally extinguished the only source of true divinity.  
  
But now, watching his angel hurl the feed, an almost uncontrolled, if Crowley didn't know better, anger behind his movement, and the demon felt himself grow more concerned than he had ever been.  
  
"What is it, angel?" he questioned softly. His first impulse was to squeeze the hand in his grip, maybe use it to turn the other around, draw him in his embrace. As always, his impulse was wrong. Instead, he let his hand go limp, extracted it from the soft comfort that was Aziraphale's touch. Or would have, if his angel had not prevented him, his grip tightening.  
  
"Come now, is it not enough you have been fattening the poor ducks for probably decades now that you also have to attack them with those seeds? Have some mercy, angel," Crowley found his voice enough to tease when the silence stretched. As always, it was the wrong thing to do. Something in his words made his angel tense, a shiver running down his body, traveling across their joined hands and making something curl uncomfortably under Crowley's stomach.  
  
"I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to..." Aziraphale started, bit his lip, sighed. He looked so fragile, like a tapestry torn by the wind and Crowley ached to pick up all the pieces. "I'm just being silly again."  
  
"Yeah, well, I don't think the local aquatic life deserves it," Crowley said lightheartedly, tugging his angel away from whatever had gotten him so upset. His thumb slid over the other's wrist again, noting the way it fluttered under his touch. Aziraphale met his gaze and the small pull of his lips could have been read as either apologetic or thankful. Crowley shook his head, gently refusing both.  
  
"Do you think ducks are classified as aquatic, actually?" Aziraphale asked suddenly, once they were a fair deal away from the lake. Crowley, better than anyone, knew a diversion when he saw one but was still grateful for it. With a voice that was too light not to be fake, or was that simply the fact he was next to his angel, the demon proceeded to engage them both in the most trivial of discussions about ducks. Just how they both liked it.  
  
It took him until they were standing in front of the bookshop, hours later, to realise their hands had not for one moment loosened their hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you there will be courtship! They are both so soft for each other, aaaargh. Which serves to soften the blow of the angst, but then again how can you write Crowley without his angst. Hope you enjoyed!


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn't always easy. It stung, just slightly, like acid on a wound, to finally reveal his feelings only to have his angel turn his back on him, again and again. But Crowley was used to it. Sure, it wasn't some silly temptation the demon had asked his friend to cover for him or a mutually beneficial deal that Aziraphale had refused to even consider. _But Crowley was used to it_. He had spent centuries listening for the '_maybe_'s and the '_not now_'s behind his angel's refusals. He had learnt when to push, when to take a step back, when to scowl when all he wanted was to crowd Aziraphale and devour him.  
  
It was worth it, he knew it was, every time his angel beamed up at him, reached for his hand. When each night they spent together, almost every night, now, and his friend would curl close and his warmth would envelop the demon as if it had always been meant for him. When Aziraphale would look at him in that indescribable, strange way of his, as Crowley's Love stretched its wings around them, and his eyes would sparkle almost as if he was going to cry. And the demon would know that he could comfort him, he could draw him closer in his arms, could brush away his tears. Fortunately for him, really, as Crowley knew he would have never been able to stop himself anyway.  
  
Subtly, surely, his angel's '_no_'s and '_we can't_'s sounded more and more like '_not now_', even '_please ask me later_'. His '_careful_'s morphed into '_careful or I might fall for you_'. Crowley could only answer with a smile of his own- _'I already have_'. And with each passing day they enjoyed each other's company in the park or at the theater or at the opera, and each passing night spent sprawled on the couch, engaged in the most trivial of discussions, Crowley _almost_ felt like he was winning.  
  
It was a strange feeling, that. Being so close to something he had never thought he would have, something he had never even dared to _want_. Crowley would have probably felt elated, his heart bursting with all those emotions he could never name, if not for the pang of guilt that seized his body every time Aziraphale had to crane his neck to look up at him. All the mirrors in his house he had had to cover, the glimpses of black hair and brown eyes so revolting they made him want to hurl. Someone _was_ slowly winning Aziraphale over, but it wasn't Crowley. It would never _be_ Crowley.  
  
They had gone to the opera. The demon was not the biggest of fans but it was one of the few things Aziraphale would not hesitate to agree to. It was loud and too hard to follow but sometime during their second visit, Crowley had realised- it had its charm. Namely, the fact his angel enjoyed it, the way his lips gently parted and his eyes sparkled with delight. How he would laugh, and for a moment it would be the only sound in the room, how he would cry and Crowley would be allowed to rub his arms soothingly. And if the demon spent most of the time watching his angel, rather than the stage, so what? He had, after all, accompanied Aziraphale to enjoy art and he had indulged in the only one that truly mattered.  
  
After it was over, they headed towards the bookshop, hand in hand, stopping only for ice-cream on the way. How they managed to find ice-cream in the middle of the night and in the throes of winter, was beyond the demon, but then again he had learnt centuries ago, never to question his friend when it came to food.  
  
"That's me, then," Aziraphale exclaimed, an unusual waver in his voice. It felt strange, the way his angel was acting, as if it was the first time Crowley had walked him home, and the only reason the demon bit his tongue to stop himself from pointing it out, was that Aziraphale was nervous. He was smiling, that ever present soft smile, but Crowley could see the controlled pull on its left side. Could feel the way his angel was rocking slightly on his heels, what could have easily been confused for his happy wiggle, had Crowley not known better.  
  
Before the demon could let the worry permeate his mind fully, his angel was letting go of his hand and turning around. Oh. He tried to chase the disappointment away, his friend was probably busy, they couldn't spend all their days together. Crowley was being _clingy_ and he had no right. He had no fucking right over his angel's time or company and he had to be grateful for whatever amount, never enough, he had been given.  
  
But then Aziraphale whipped around, a strange determination twisting his features and maybe, maybe Crowley could hope they would not part so early. Perhaps even, his mind purred, he could spend the night again? Whatever he had been hoping for, he could have never imagined what happened next. In a flurry of white locks and pale skin that was suddenly too close, reality rushed past him, too fast for Crowley to realise what was happening, let alone fucking _enjoy_ it. Aziraphale was kissing him.  
  
Realistically, it was only a peck on the cheek. Had Crowley ever let himself cross paths with his angel when it was the modern way to greet someone, he probably would have committed to memory dozens of them by now. Which was why he never did. It was a simple slide of those pink, full, _plush_ lips against his skin and it should not have made the heart he wasn't supposed to have jump in his throat. Nor should it have made his whole body flush, feeling so unbelievably warm even as it stood there, frozen on the pavement. Crowley was unable to do anything, couldn't move a muscle, not even to lift his hand and touch where Aziraphale's lips had been moments ago, as undignified as that would have been. He could only stare as his angel turned delightfully pink and hurried inside, rambling about something that, even if Crowley had the mental capacity to understand, he was sure would not have made any sense either.  
  
As if hours later, feeling almost drunk, Crowley was able to unstick his legs from the pavement and sway his way home.

* * *

  
This was how their day started.  
  
Crowley sighed as he stared into a closet filled to the brim with items that would make scholars and archeologist alike weep. He had spent longer than he would ever be willing to count gazing blindly into something, the mere existence of which he would never admit to. Finally, he plucked a book from a shelf, carefully titled '16th century', weighted it in his hands, then put it back before finally taking it and closing the door with resolution he did not feel. One could never go wrong with a book, he reasoned, even one whose existence would be slightly harder to explain than most. But then again, his angel deserved nothing less.  
  
He had almost reached the bookshop when a sudden realisation almost stopped his heart. Flicking the book open, he cursed under his breath as he saw the inscription on the first page, one that, in a moment of insanity, he had asked of Will and then almost forgotten about.  
  
"To Aziraphale,  
  
May you look not with eyes, but with mind at all that is before you,  
  
Your eternal friend, William"  
  
It was addressed to Aziraphale. It was always meant for him, all of the things in his closet were. Crowley was just... holding onto them, because he was an idiot and a coward with too much hope and not enough self-preservation. Even as the demon ran a hand over the words, erasing them from existence, he tried not to remember the way the writer had looked at him, that strange emotion, so close to pity and yet entirely different. And the way Crowley had stood there, feeling raw and exposed, as if Will could look into his very soul, could sift through all the darkness and gaze upon the only good thing there.  
  
"Lost love," the writer had sighed and never mentioned it again.  
  
It was hard, trying to banish all those fantasies Crowley had entertained long ago, foolish and childish and so terribly hopeful, of returning the book to the only one who would truly appreciate it. Of basking in the warmth of his angel, the way the other would look, as if he longed to touch him and Crowley wouldn't flinch away. No, Crowley would press closer, would return the caress, return the smile even, if he was feeling bold.  
  
His dream, as it turned out, was not far from reality. It felt bitter-sweet as he watched Aziraphale gasp and press one of Shakespeare's lost plays to his chest, that dazzling smile almost burning, almost painful. And then Crowley's own body was pressed to the angel's, held with that same sort of reverence and the demon could do nothing but try to concentrate on the stitches holding his soul together. There might have been a prayer, a dark and guilty thing, shot to whomever was listening, that this simple contact did not leave Crowley a black oil spill on the ground.  
  
"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Aziraphale's gentle words washed over him as he let himself be rocked into place. Ever the masochist, he leaned forward, burrowing his nose into white curls and breathing into his angel's scent, that perfect mixture of divine and earthly, of Heaven and Aziraphale.  
  
Crowley couldn't suppress the shudder at the cold when he was finally released, although he could still feel that warmth enveloping him. He doubted he would ever stop. When his angel questioned him of the origin of the present, he offered only a shrug. He was, after all, a wealthy man and there was not a lot that could not be obtained with money. Nonetheless, Crowley hurried to usher them out of the door, anxious that unless he busied his angel's mind with the thought of food, there would be more questions. Some of which, he was not fully prepared to answer. They were headed for a new restaurant Aziraphale had mentioned in passing he was interested in visiting. That's all it took, these days, for Crowley to book a table, arrange tickets, all in the hopes of that same blinding smile now grazing his angel's lips.  
  
Aziraphale reached out for him, his palm open and inviting, and Crowley laced their fingers together. He couldn't remember the last time they had not held hands, didn't really want to, to recall there had been a time when the warmth of his angel's touch had been denied to him. When he had had to walk alone, when he couldn't feel the other's elbow brush ever so softly against his own. When he couldn't run his fingers against Aziraphale's pulse, hum to the rhythm of his heart. It had become something natural for the both of them, an instinct, just like breathing, that would hurt oh so much, once it was pried away from him.  
  
Their date was perfect. There was something so tantalizing, something almost sacrilegious, in sharing the same space as his angel as he chattered gently. The Love was but a whisper around them, a soft thickness of the air that had carved its place in the space between their bodies only recently. Even then, it felt ancient, born millennia ago and nourished by all the stolen glances, all the half-words and never-whispered promises. As if it had always meant to be there and for once in his life Crowley felt no guilt when he sensed it, no pain when it ran a delicate feather across angelic features, just as the demon had always hoped _he_ would.  
  
He felt _content_. He held his angel's hand, fingers running over knuckles absentmindedly, as he let his friend's voice lull him gently, his smile- banish all the shadows in his heart. Aziraphale had always been the centre of his universe and now, now, he was allowed to show it. Crowley opened his mouth, ready to voice the sentiment, a strange bravery taking root in his heart, but was quickly silenced by the tightening of his angel's grip. Aziraphale looked at him, eyes wide and pleading and so bloody full of love. As if he knew, and of course he did. But there was no rejection anymore, no more '_no_'s that sounded like something else. There was just a plea, half-full and hesitant, a plea for time.  
  
It was enough. Crowley beckoned the waiter over and ordered his angel's favourite dessert, letting himself laugh at the happy wiggle that overtook his Aziraphale's whole body. Time was a thing he had in abundance. Time and his Love.

* * *

  
This was how their night, and their relationship, ended.  
  
Crowley was sprawled on the couch, too much alcohol and a strange emotion he could almost call happiness, dancing in his blood, making him restless.  
  
"Angel," he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. There was almost pride in the way he grinned as he noted the minimum sway of his hips. "Let's dance."  
  
Aziraphale glanced up at him, his lips puckering as he tried to shake his head but the demon was having none of it. Curling a finger around his angel's wrist, momentarily delighted in the fact that he _could_, Crowley tugged the other upwards and right into his embrace.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm not very good, my dear," his angel slurred slightly, but made no attempt to move away. In fact, Aziraphale inched even closer, splaying his fingers over the other's broad chest and that simple touch, warmth, that managed to permeate his skin and warm his heart, made Crowley sway on his feet. At least, he could excuse that with the alcohol. He didn't quite know how to explain away the almost automatic way his hand sneaked around his angel's waist, holding him possessively. 

"Neither am I, angel. We'll learn as we go."  
  
His grip tightened, dragging the other's body flush against his own. Every inch, every curve he had only ever dreamt about was suddenly pressed against him and Crowley had to bite back a groan at the way his heart fluttered undemonically in his rib-cage. They were so close, he could feel the other's heart beat, could sense the tickling of his ragged breath. For one terrible moment, Crowley realised he had finally overstepped. They were on the precipice of something monumental, balancing over the dark unknown that was calling for them, a siren's song. And he would have dived, head first, without a second thought, if not for the way his angel was entangled with him, ensuring his own fall too.  
  
Crowley tried to move away, a chuckled apology already on his tongue but Aziraphale held him close, wrapping his arms around his neck and knocking all the breath from the demon's lungs.  
  
"Teach me," his angel mumbled into his neck, so soft it almost felt ethereal. Almost as if he hadn't meant to say that at all.  
  
They didn't dance, not really. To dance would have been to take a step back, away from the other's warm body, to make an effort when all they wanted was to sink into it all. Instead, Crowley held his angel close, swaying in time with the way the Love around them pulsed, humming a song he had long forgotten. Maybe one he had never even heard before. The demon let his head rest against the other's shoulder, desperate to remember everything, the little bubble of Love, of Aziraphale, but weren't they the same thing, he had found himself in. He committed to memory the way his angel felt in his arms, the stretch of muscles as he moved, the weight of him, how undeniably _real_ he felt. His smell, the sound of his heartbeat, the way his soft curls tickled. Crowley would have wept at that moment, wasn't really sure he wasn't behind the glasses, if he was not a demon. And demons didn't _do_ that. Demons didn't enjoy things, not things like that, not pure, innocent things like that.  
  
And yet, in that moment, the only thing he could possibly think...  
  
"My angel," he murmured, his palm cradling a rosy cheek, tipping it up. His gaze was hazy, he realised, when the image of Aziraphale felt slightly blurry, almost unreal. Like a distant dream, a memory of a fantasy. It almost made it easier. "My lovely angel."  
  
Aziraphale nuzzled into the caress, eyes fluttering shut. He was glowing, a gentle hue against the darkness that was Crowley.  
  
"No one has ever loved me like you do," his angel whispered, trepidation and hope all tumbled into one, before he opened his eyes and the demon almost felt like he was drowning.  
  
Crowley leaned closer, a hopeless victim of the gravity of a star. The Love around them was buzzing with anticipation now, with raw wonder, with the hope the demon had denied it for so long.  
  
They kissed. It felt like the first touch of a sun-ray after a long winter, of the first musical note after living in silence. It tasted like Happiness and Love, and Crowley felt joy, one he had rarely let himself feel and one only born from the company of his friend, bubble in his throat as those silky lips slid against his own. As they claimed him, finally, completely, as they laid waste to the hopes he would one day be able to look at his angel with the eyes of a friend. They uncovered a hole in his heart, a yawning pit that had always been there and yet. Yet as quickly as it had appeared it was filled. With the gentle, almost tentative way fingertips pressed against his neck, with soft moans, burned against his lips, with the way his angel was pressing against him, desperate in his own tender way. With that ever so faint smell of Love, different than his own, drifting in the air.   
  
Aziraphale sighed. It was a name.  
  
It wasn't the demon's name.  
  
And then again, it was.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to be so subtle last chapter and I bamboozled all of you, you didn't even suspect it!!! But! If you had known, you would have had time to prepare... and where's the _fun_ in that. I know I'm mean, please don't kill me.

Silence stretched its wings around them, cold and heavy, suffocating. The Earth, the galaxy, the whole of creation froze, as if to accommodate the world of a single demon shifting on its axis. And it had. Shifted, that is. Crowley, himself, found his own body frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, to even _think_. Loud and cutting, the name echoed inside his mind. It vibrated behind his eyes, a sinister sound, an impossible word. _That_ name.

The demon wondered if perhaps he had misheard, if his treacherous mind had betrayed his deepest desires, had given him what it thought he wanted. But then again, when had it ever done that before? Had he... he hadn't slipped, had he? A blink and something sharp digging into him and, no, he hadn't. And yet...

"Crowley," his angel had moaned, soft and wistful. Full of love. Plump lips had parted, in dazed wonder, in beautiful surrender. As if, at last, the angel had found himself wrapped around what he had always desired and now had no intention of letting it go. 

It felt sacrilegious somehow, like Crowley wasn't meant to hear it, wasn't even meant to be _there_. But before he could dwell on it, find a way to make it seem less than it was or, better, find a way to deny the words' existence altogether, Aziraphale was moving, scrambling backwards, eyes widening, enough to fit all the dread and remorse suddenly filling them. The angel was wrapping his arms around his body, as if to protect himself from an attack that would never come.

"Angel?" Crowley croaked as if an eternity later, when the way the silence was crushing his bones became unbearable. There was a hurricane of emotions, dark and vile things, wrecking havoc inside his head, but his angel was distressed. His angel _needed_ him and it made everything else seem trifle in comparison. Gingerly, he took a step forward, reaching out as if the other was an injured animal he wanted to sooth. He couldn't, Aziraphale flinching and dancing out of his reach and Crowley felt sick.

"I'm sorry," almost desperately, his angel cried out. Crowley could see the way his fingers gripped his own forearms, the painful holes digits dug in soft skin. Had he been his old self he would have known not to push, that it wasn't the time for _this_. But he had spent too much time enjoying the freedom his new face had given him, he had gotten used to touching, being allowed to, _reveling_ in their closeness. 

He outstretched his hand, almost instinctively.

"Az..."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Everything stood still. Crowley did too, a prisoner inside his own body.

"I'm sorry," his angel started, breathless, voice raw. It was trembling, his whole body was, yet he still took a tentative step forward, reaching out, fingers curling into a fist inches away from Crowley's own. "You must know, for all it is worth... I loved you. I truly did." Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to laugh, like he had done so many times, but no sound came out. Somehow, that simple act managed to break Crowley's heart more than any word the other could have uttered. "I can't know if I... If it was because you reminded me of him _so much_ but I cared for you. Even though I knew it was wrong, even though it wasn't fair on you. I'm..."

Aziraphale's voice wavered and he bit his lips to stop it. Crowley, frozen into a statue of delirious hope, reaching out for what he had thought he could never have and now watching it shy away, could do nothing. Nothing but feel the way his heart was crumbling, piece by painful piece, the burn of invisible tears, the claw of unsaid words against his throat. 

"I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry, my Anthony. Oh, Lord, you must be so scared. I won't hurt you, I would never. It would all be better now, I promise." A deep sigh and there was something dark raising inside Crowley's chest. His angel, his beautiful, stupid angel was going to do something. And it would hurt. Crowley could see it in the resolution behind the other's clenched fists, the hard line of Aziraphale's bitten-raw lips. 

He was right. Had it not been for the miracle holding his joints together, he would have collapsed upon hearing his angel's next words. 

"You will forget about me. When I snap my fingers you will go home and dream of what you love best and when you wake up you will no longer remember me. I will be nothing but a stray thought, a long forgotten lullaby that might linger on the edges of your conscious. Because I love you and I hurt you and I am so so very sorry, my dear. But I'm selfish. And I cannot imagine a version of you that exists in this world without even a tiny part of me inside it."

Crowley wanted to scream. He tried to, the sound deafening inside his own head but unable to break the miracle holding him hostage. He tried to trash around, he tried to beg, he even prayed. But in the end, he could do nothing but watch, silent and apathetic, as Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, as he pointedly turned his head away. As he brought his hand up, quickly, almost like if he hesitated now he would never gather the courage again, before bringing it down with a click of his fingers.

There was a moment, a second stretched thin into eternity, when Crowley let the words wash over him, nudge his subconscious gently. He tried not to believe them, tried to fight them as they whispered that it would be okay, that it would all be so much better once he _forgot_. Didn't he want all the pain, the anguish, that constant ache inside the hole in his rib-cage to go away? And how easy that would be. All he had to do was forget.

Crowley's body relaxed, features sagging in a way that could have been called peaceful, but never would be. Aziraphale nodded, more to himself than the empty shell of a man in front of him and turned away. He was shaking again, little tremors climbing from his clenched fists, up unnaturally squared shoulders, up red lips peaking behind pearly white teeth. 

He was sad. The man in front of him. Crowley realised that, as quickly as he had realised he had probably drank one too many and wandered inside this stuffy library. As quickly as he had realised he didn't _want_ this random person to _be_ sad. There was a smile, buried in the layers of pale skin and tear-streaked cheeks, a dazzling little thing, one he somehow knew would be... angelic.

There was no big reveal after that. No sudden lightning, crashing against his skull, bearing all his memories. There was just a hole, inside of him, inside his very soul.

And then there wasn't.

He took a step forward, then another, then another before he was standing behind his angel, wrapping his arms around his stiff shoulders.

"You are the thing I love best," he whispered inside the other's locks. A confession, a secret, just for them to know. 

Aziraphale whipped around and Crowley could just grin, his eyes wide and hopeful, his smile, threatening to spill its warmth between them. And there must have been something, in the way the demon had looked at him, the way he had held himself because the angel was pulling away, frowning, the tremors overtaking his body once again.

"Crowley?" 

The demon had thought about this moment for so long, dreaded it, woke up from it in a cold sweat. He had always thought it would be his fault, of course it would, why wouldn't it be? He would do something, slip up with words or a touch and his angel would know. Never in an eternity would he have guessed he would be doing it willingly, no, he would be ecstatic to. Never would he have thought his disguise would be the only obstacle on his path to the one thing he had never let himself hope for.

A single thought and he was shifting, his body shrinking, features finding their edges, hair turning aflame once again. He blinked and the contacts disappeared, leaving that slight burn behind, the cause of which he had yet to determine. Only his smile remained, a gentle little thing that must have looked so strange stretching his thin lips. There was so much still that he didn't understand and the questions should have been crowding inside his brain, bumping against each other. Instead, the demon just felt _calm_. He was but a man who had suddenly found a long lost treasure, no, something better, something far more valuable. He had, quite suddenly, been gifted with a part of his very being he had never thought he would see again. And it was still eerie, in a way, too lucid to be a dream, too unbelievable to be anything else and Crowley tried desperately to still the excitement dancing underneath his skin.

Only, there was not much he could enjoy, now. Something dark and twisted, terrible in a way even a demon would find repulsive, passed through Aziraphale's too pale face and the angel was stumbling back once again, ungraceful but for a second, before he could right himself.

"I see," the other said, a cold detachment. It sounded fake or, at least, Crowley hoped it was. He found himself wondering if he had read the situation wrong, if he had let his stupid dreams colour his vision. But no, his angel had said, had _insinuated_, that Crowley was the person he had been in love with. Hadn't he? Before he could try to make sense of it all, or sink deeper, his friend was talking, words distant and cold. His body was, too. "Well, if you have had your fun I would appreciate it if you were to leave, please?"

"Had... my fun?" Crowley repeated, perplexed. When everything had once stood still, now it was going too fast, in all directions, leaving him feeling dizzy and weak. There was only one thing that made sense, that had _always_ made sense, his only constant and he reached out for his angel. Only to have him recoil, as if the demon's touch was Hellfire. "Angel..."

Aziraphale held a hand to stop him. "Don't. I don't care if it was some twisted joke or if you were trying to punish me for refusing to help you but... I never thought you could be this cruel, Crowley. I trust, now that I know, that the joke is over so I would be very grateful if you could leave. Now, please."

Crowley almost did. Leaving was easy. Storing all his feelings like priceless books in a cupboard was what he was good at. Saying "No" when so many other words were scratching at his heart. 

"It wasn't a joke. I would never..." Crowley shook his head, took a breath. Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, hardened, smooth steel promising pain, and if the demon had a sliver of self-preservation he would have left. He would have snapped his stupid mouth shut, he would have turned around and he would have left. And maybe, if he was lucky, a few decades later he could have come back and they would have pretended none of this had happened. They could have continued this, this relationship, more dance than a friendship.

And the thing was, Crowley was a coward. At least when his angel was concerned. "Don't expect anything, don't take too much." It had been his mantra all their shared existence. It was better that way, holding onto the fraying rope of their acquaintanceship rather than falling down the vast unknown chasm below. Yes, Crowley was a coward. He had spent centuries, millennia, taking the path of least resistance, of teaching himself that wanting was pointless, that desires ached and hurt as they slowly tore a hole through your very soul. But he could feel something inside him, all those times he had swallowed down his words, had dug his fingers into the meat of his palm- speck after speck of sand until there was a desert inside of him. And Aziraphale was the oasis in its very centre, its only source of relief, of everlasting life. 

"I didn't know," the demon insisted, feverish, as if it was the only thing that could save him now. In a way, in the most important of them all, it was. "About your feeling, I could have never even imagined."

His eyes were burning behind the glasses and still, with a single flourish, he flung them away. Crowley didn't even want to imagine how pathetic he must have looked, the desperation etched into his skin, wordlessly reaching out, for just one touch, just one more chance. Something twisted inside Aziraphale, some Divine Goodness, that Crowley was not above using, but just like that it was gone. And his angel was backing away now, away from the demon and inching closer and closer to the bookshop's door with every time Crowley pushed him. The demon wondered if his friend was even realising it, that ever so slow escape, the tentative way he was approaching his freedom not unlike an injured animal. Somehow, his heart found a tiny part of itself that was still whole enough to shatter.

"Don't lie to me. If nothing else, please don't lie to me." There was something so weak, so broken, so dejected in his angel's voice but Crowley dared not approach him. Not again. "I have done everything but scream in your face how I felt for you. All those times I sought you out, the times I all but begged for your company. I agreed to the _Arrangement_ so I could see you more. I loved you and you _knew_."

"You were _friendly_," the demon snarled, despite himself. 'Loved', he tried not to think, not to dwell on it. Not love, _loved_. "You are an angel. That's what you are _supposed_ to be."

A single, perfectly shaped eyebrow climbed up Aziraphale's forehead. "Are we?"

The image of eyes piercing with righteous judgement, of blazing swords and white wings splattered with blood flashed before his eyes. Of drowning children and columns of fire and angels- watching in vengeance. No, Crowley thought, suddenly feeling empty, no, they weren't. How easily he had let himself forget that angels had been created warriors. They were not supposed to be the sole vessel of Heaven's Love and Forgiveness, no, that was just Aziraphale.

The demon shook his head, mute. 

_"He knows. Of course, he does. After everything,"_ the words rung inside his head, deafening as a church bell. It had hurt so much when he had heard them that first time. It hurt even more now. Did he know? _Had_ he known? He felt himself wondering this through the absurdity of the situation. But... of course he hadn't. Why would he have even thought to look past that voice inside his head that reminded him how unworthy he was of the creature before him, or try to ignore that empty ache inside his heart hole he had grown almost fond of now? Crowley had never even let himself believe they were friends, let alone that his angel shared his feelings. That his angel _sought him out_. That his beautiful, divine angel would look at him, would even _notice_ him through the darkness that was Crowley, and still want him.

But there was something else inside him, something dark and ancient, something rotten that stifled the hope blooming, that whispered, "You are wrong" and, "He can't love you". And he believed it. As he always did.

"You said he was kind, the man you loved,' Crowley said, the dejection creeping inside his voice, as if he had already resigned himself to the fact this was just a stupid misunderstanding. That not only had he ruined their friendship but now he would have those few moments he had believed Aziraphale could love him, weighing against his heart, crushing it, for an eternity. "I'm not that. We both know it."

A wrinkle appeared on Aziraphale's forehead as he frowned. It was a slight, insignificant thing and it wouldn't have terrified anyone who had not spent an eternity etching those lines inside his conscious. But Crowley knew that wrinkle, the way it made the blood inside his veins freeze. It was the angriest he had ever seen his friend and he was not used to being on the receiving end of that silent fury, cold and unassuming, burrowing its way underneath the skin and eating at him from the inside. 

And yet again, he was wrong. Because Aziraphale _could_ get angrier. The other's face flushed red, his frown deepening, lips pulling together. It looked unnatural, that face, carved from Her Divinity, its sole purpose to bring joy, to _be_ joyous, twisted in that horrible way. Crowley realised with a start, it was all his doing. He had tainted his angel, as he had always thought he would. He had brought him pain and shame and he had taught him the meaning of anger and betrayal. He should be proud, he thought bitterly, corrupting an angel in the worst way. He was finally becoming the demon he had never wanted to be.

He opened his mouth to apologise, to end this stupid conversation any way he could just so he could do them both a favour and disappear completely from his angel's life. But Aziraphale was faster, crossing the distance that had once felt endlessly vast in a few short steps and grasping him by the front of his shirt. 

"Those children on Noah's Ark," his angel _growled_, without any sort of preamble, so close their noses were bumping together. "All those people you could not save from the plague in the 14th century and how devastated you were. The way you have helped humanity, all through history and, don't give me that look, of course I knew. The many times you have helped _me_ even though you don't... You made a fool of me once, but do not think you could do it again. You knew, Crowley, _of course you did_."

There was an edge to Aziraphale's voice and it was searing, the way he spat out words that tasted like venom. The angel's hands twisted around his clothes, jostling his suddenly too light body around and all Crowley could do was shake his head. It was too much, all of it, and the thoughts were bleeding out of him, replaced by that point of contact between them, of the feel of Aziraphale's hands on him and how he had spent an eternity dreaming of it only to now feel sickened by it. 

And there must have been something on his face, something the angel could read because, suddenly, the hands were leaving him, falling limply at the other's side.

"Didn't you?" Aziraphale asked, so softly it could have almost been mistaken for a puff of air. 

They stood like this, in silence, for so long Crowley could not remember a time they had talked to each other. Everything felt new in that terrifying way, all invisible red tape and sharp pain whenever you made the wrong move. So he didn't. He didn't move, he didn't speak. There was something about being in his old body, looking at the angel through his own eyes, knowing that Aziraphale was seeing _him_ and not a random stranger. It made fear bloom inside his chest and overtake his body, his voice. Reminding him of his place.

"Please," the angel started, weak and breathless and Crowley wanted nothing more than to gather him in his arms and never let him go. Instead, he pointedly kept his gaze away and his face downcast. "Just... explain to me? Why would you go through all this effort, why would you spend months playing this charade? Why would you make me fall in love with you, _again_? Why... how would you fake that Love you made me feel? Were you trying to punish me? Because I refused to help you? You are not that cruel, Crowley, I know you are not. You wouldn't make me go through all of this, you wouldn't make me feel like I was betraying you by loving this other man, you wouldn't make me feel like I was betraying _him_ by loving you. Please, just..." 

Aziraphale trailed off and Crowley couldn't see his face, couldn't see anything other than the way the other's hands were clenched into fists by his side. But, Satan, those words, heavy with grief, they made something inside of him twist, something primal. That instinct to protect, to help that he had suppressed for so long and yet it had grown, like a weed, between the concrete of his resolution.

"I didn't," he mumbled, the words tumbling out before he had even had the time to decide on the meaning behind them. There was a fog around his mind, one he tried to dispel with the shake of his head. "I did not lie to you. I have never lied to you," finally, he said, deciding to start small- with the things he had always regarded as absolute truths. "Everything I said, back when I was _him_, I meant it." 

Crowley tried to put everything he was feeling, everything he had ever felt, inside his words. He didn't need to, Aziraphale knew him well enough to know when he was lying, or at least he had always thought so. The way his angel was looking at him, suspicion and hurt drowning in those blue eyes, he wasn't so sure anymore. 

"I never meant for you to fall in love with him. But it was easy, letting myself believe I was this other man, worthy of your friendship, of your affection, of your _touch_. I got carried away because I thought I would never be able to feel it otherwise. And I didn't... I would never be able to fake my lo- my feelings. I didn't mean for you to notice them."

He bit his lip, opened his mouth to say something else, anything else, but words failed him. It was hard, sharing feelings he had buried inside himself so long ago, whose poisonous fruits he had enjoyed so many times. Crowley felt helpless and hopeless and stupid, saying all of this, but there was still so much pain shining from Aziraphale's tight grimace and it was all that mattered. It had always been the only thing that mattered, his angel's comfort, his happiness. And if Crowley had to bare all that darkness inside of himself to see even a shadow of the usual smile cast upon the other's face, well... 

With a final, stilling breath, Crowley let all his carefully built walls crumble down. He bared himself, completely, irrevocably, before the only creature that would ever deserve it. For a moment, there was nothing but this faint buzzing between them, as if matter was rearranging itself, preparing for something monumental. And then, just as Crowley's self-preservation was starting to kick in, reminding him how stupid of an idea that was, _it_ was there, drifting between them. Before, it had been just glimpses, drops from the ocean that was Crowley's Love, spilling slowly as it overflowed. It was all there now, every moment together the demon had treasured inside his heart, every smile he had inscribed behind his eyelids, every laugh, every kind word that had tumbled out of Aziraphale's mouth that Crowley had repeated in the confines of his mind until the words no longer had meaning, until they were nothing but soft sounds. There were the touches, the almost-there whispers as his angel's skin ghosted over his, that Crowley collected almost religiously, that need, gnawing at his raw bones to reach out and cradle the other's body until nothing separated them, until they could meld into one. 

It was all there, Crowley's Love, a mosaic of every moment he had spent with his angel, the thousand ways he had looked at him, the million ways he had _loved_ him. It swayed between them, naked and vulnerable, in all its vile glory, there for the other to laugh at, mock, be disgusted by it. And Crowley had to grit his teeth and clench his jaw and resist the urge to stuff it back inside himself, where it would be safe from the rejection.

Yet, no rejection followed. There were no harsh words, no cutting laughter as Aziraphale mocked even the idea of sharing a demon's feelings. No, his angel stood before him, frozen in place, eyes glassy as he stared at the air between them, as if he could... _see_ it, every second that made up the demon's Love. 

"Crowley..." Aziraphale whispered, that same sort of reverence the other was sure he had heard before but was not sure when. 

Encouraged by this, by the lack of rejection, not yet, Crowley took a step closer, let the Love unfurl even further. 

"The first time I saw you," he started, voice raw with emotions he wouldn't name. Couldn't, really. But he could explain. And hopefully Aziraphale would understand. Maybe, maybe he would even stay. "I remember the first time I saw you. I don't remember the names of those children on the Ark, I don't remember how Jesus looked, I don't remember how any of our friends sounded, but I remember you. You were there, perched on the Wall, eyes wide in awe, the Love spilling from you, making everything just a little bit brighter. You were so... beautiful and divine, a little piece of Her I knew I could only ever worship from afar. And your smile, angel, your bloody smile, that made me think, even then, that I would do anything to see it again. And then, I remember this, the moment I felt this _ancient_ feeling taking root, then you put down your sword and you climbed down the Wall and you went to talk to them."

There was something itching inside Crowley's throat, around his eyes, and his skin felt rubbed raw and exposed. He didn't dare look up and meet the other's gaze, unsure of what he would see there, unsure he even wanted to know. But he owed this to the angel, it was the least he could offer- his bloody, misshapen, rotten heart. 

So he forced the words out of his too tight throat and prayed that when all of this was over, Aziraphale would be forgiving enough to at least talk to him, "I fell in love with you then. With your kindness and your smile and that ridiculous thing you call hair that looks more like a halo. I fell in love with how soft you are, how utterly perfect and I don't remember ever stopping..."

There was more, so much more he wanted to say, the words eager to escape from their prison inside his heart. Crowley wasn't sure if he would have ever stopped talking, now that he had let the worst of it out. Now that he had named that time-worn feeling inside his soul. But he had no chance, not with the way Aziraphale was suddenly so close, close enough the demon could bask in his warmth one last time, and suddenly the other was gathering him in his arms and cradling him against his chest. And Crowley, Crowley could do nothing but stay absolutely still, unsure if even a twitch of his muscles would remind his angel that he didn't deserve this. Not the gentle way Aziraphale was holding onto him, the warm press of hands around his waist, the white locks tickling his cheeks as the other tucked his head in the nook of the demon's shoulder. 

And Crowley knew he should be enjoying this. It was, quite possibly, the last time in a very long time, maybe ever, he would be allowed his angel's touch. He was allowed to sink into the embrace, mop up the other's warmth like the pathetic excuse for a demon he was. But he felt like he was taking advantage, like he was too unworthy to even share the same space as the most divine creature he had ever met, not after everything he had done. Stupidly, he voiced his concern, stilling his mind for the inevitable mockery. 

Instead, Aziraphale moved away, just enough to be able to gaze up at him and Crowley found an odd amount of comfort in the way the angel's hands were still secured around his waist. There was something so soft in the way the other looked at him, reverent in a way it had never been, and the demon stared, transfixed.

"What you did, it was horrible," Aziraphale said suddenly, small and hesitant. Crowley knew he deserved it, frankly, the curses he had been hurling at himself had been far worse and yet, the words still made him flinch. He nodded, a curt, final thing and tried to extract himself from an embrace that tasted like pity and despair. But the grip his angel had around him was iron. "You made me _feel_ horrible, all those times I thought it should have been you with me, helping me with the bookshop, dancing with me, feeding the ducks at the park. The days I spent telling myself I was wrong to lead _him_ on, that the only reason behind my feelings for him was the fact he reminded me of you. That he was a version of you that loved me and he was not _you_ but he was the only thing I would ever be allowed. And it made me feel awful, how I was using him. It was... it was beyond cruel, what you did, Crowley."

There was nothing Crowley could say, no excuses for anything he had done and even if there were... he _knew_ it had been wrong. He had always known this would be how it all ended. The hug, it was a nice gesture, an unexpected one, certainly undeserved, but it didn't change the fact that this, this was how their fragile friendship ended.

"And I don't know how you managed to fail to notice my feelings for you or what possessed you to even think there would ever be anyone else for me. But... I understand it. I have known you for so long and I should have..."

Shaking his head, Crowley cut him off. How could his angel have known? Even Crowley, himself, couldn't have begun to suspect the depth of his own self-deprecation, how deep those notions that had been engraved in him ran. It had been so long, eternities that he had thought had brought with themselves enough time to heal. Yet, there they were, scarred tissue and brittle bones on display, and his heart, the only thing he could ever offer- battered and bruised. He should be ashamed, a small part of him, the ugliest of them all, whispered. He was being soft, vulnerable, the worst thing a demon could be. Then, he realised, here, in Aziraphale's grip, with the angel looking at him so gently, as if he was a precious antique and not something broken... Maybe, just once, he could let himself be soft.

"You couldn't have known, angel." Crowley shrugged, there was nothing else he could possibly say. "I'm sorry."

"I can't forgive you just yet. I would need some time." Aziraphale sighed and the sound of his voice made the demon's head snap up, eyes wide with an unspoken question. There was something in his angel's gaze, something _playful_ that made his heart sway inside his chest. Crowley tried to tell himself he was reading too much into this, that he had no right to expect... oh, but then Aziraphale's eyebrows twitched up in that special way of his and the demon felt his body melt inside the other's embrace. He knew what his angel would say before he had even opened his mouth, could feel the twitch of the corner of the other's mouth as it curled up. "I think, enough for a nightcap, wouldn't you agree?"

Crowley laughed. He couldn't help himself. There was a sort of glee bubbling inside his chest like champagne, making him feel light-headed. He couldn't believe this was happening, it almost felt like a dream, like something his frayed mind had concocted in order to protect his sanity. But there was something about the way Aziraphale was holding him, safe and sure, his breath tickling the demon's cheek, the warmth between their bodies, the Love, still buzzing around them, his own, mixed with something else, something so terribly familiar. It was real. 

Satan knew, he didn't deserve it. Not the touch, not the forgiveness, certainly not the _Love_ his angel felt for him, even now, even after all this. He didn't deserve even an ounce of it and yet when Aziraphale extracted himself out of their embrace and nodded towards the backroom, Crowley felt something warm bloom inside his chest. Something that felt so horribly like hope, like his own forbidden fruit. And when he extended his hand, reaching blindly for the only source of warmth in his existence, for once in his life, he didn't feel like he was overstepping. For once he didn't still his heart for a rejection, didn't need to.

All his life, he had denied feeling anything that was too soft, too _Good_, he had pushed it deep inside his demonic soul, he had corrupted it with his own darkness. He had denied himself everything he had ever wanted, had refused to acknowledge even the existence of such desires. And he had thought, in the process, he was protecting the only thing he had ever cared about.

To learn that he had actually been hurting both of them, screw that, he had been hurting _Aziraphale_... It burned, like righteous judgement, like Holy Water, being poured slowly inside his very cells. Yet, there his gorgeous angel was, chuckling ever so softly, the wrinkles around his eyes dancing with the movement, his eyes, as deep as the infinity of space, filled with something the demon finally dared to name. For the first time, everything felt... Good. 

Crowley reached out and this time, his angel reached back, entwining their fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! I had so much fun (or the opposite of fun but in the good way) writing this and I really hope you enjoyed it. I want to thank everyone who read it, commented, gave kudos or what have you, it meant so much to me. I am so so happy I got to hurt us all and especially our idiots!! 
> 
> As always, [here is my tumblr](https://waitingtobebroken.tumblr.com/) if you want to come scream at me or share angsty head canons. 
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for all your support and I really hope you liked it!!!


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